“That is where I live now, at least for a day or two,” she said. “They cannot keep me any longer. When are you going away?”
“Very soon, I am afraid, little girl,” he answered. “I will come and see you, though, before I go.”
“You promise,” she said solemnly.
“I promise,” Aynesworth repeated.
Then she held up her face, a little timidly, and he kissed her. Afterwards, he watched her turn with slow, reluctant footsteps to the unpromising abode which she had pointed out. Aynesworth made his way to the inn, cursing his impecuniosity and Wingrave’s brutal indifference.
He found the latter busy writing letters.
“Doing your work, Aynesworth?” he remarked coldly. “Be so good as to write to Christie’s for me, and ask them to send down a valuer to go through the pictures.”
“You are really going to sell!” Aynesworth exclaimed.
“Most certainly,” Wingrave answered. “Heirlooms and family pictures are only so much rubbish to me. I am the last of my line, and I doubt whether even my lawyer could discover a next of kin for my personal property. Sell! Of course I’m going to sell! What use is all this hoarded rubbish to me? I am going to turn it into gold!”
“And what use is gold?” Aynesworth asked curiously. “You have plenty!”