and I don't wonder."
On another occasion Mr. St. Quentin was heard laboriously ascending the stairs, impeded by his poor wooden leg. He had begun with a wonderful artificial limb, fitted with springs and other contrivances, but, like so many other mutilated men, had given that up for a simple stump.
"Look here, Miss Staveley," he said, "I'm in a deuce of a fix. There's a poor devil downstairs who's brought in a bundle of books worth ten pounds, and he asks if I'll give ten shillings for them. What am I to do?"
"Behave like a gentleman," said Ben. "I should say, behave like yourself."
"Yes," said Patrick, "I want to. But I'm a book seller as well. I hope I'm not the sort of man to take advantage of ignorance, especially when it's mixed up with destitution; but, after all, business is business and one can't be buyer and seller too."
"I think that's rubbish," said Ben. "Of course you can. Every dealer is, but that's always the excuse. It makes me blush."
Patrick looked at her as though in the hope that he might miss none of the heightened colour when it came.
"All the same," he said, "the other day when I wasn't in, Jack gave a fellow a fiver for a book which was only worth sixpence, owing to some missing pages which he didn't detect."
"I don't see that that has anything to do with the present matter," said Ben. "Surely each transaction is separate."