Cartwright laughed harshly.
“Of course he’d allow his affairs to be investigated,” he sneered. “Do you think that old fox couldn’t cache all the documents that put him wrong? Papers? Why, he must have enough papers to hang him, if you could only find ’em!”
“What are you going to do?” asked Timothy.
There was one thing he was determined that this man should not do, and that was to disturb the peace of mind, not of Sir John Maxell or his wife, but of a certain goddess whose bedroom overlooked the lawn.
“What am I going to do?” replied Cartwright. “Why, I’m going up to get my share. And he’ll be lucky if that’s all he loses. One of the mines was sold to a syndicate last year—I had news of it in gaol. He didn’t get much for it because he was in a hurry to sell—I suppose his other investments must have been going wrong twelve months ago—but I want my share of that!”
Timothy nodded.
“Then you had best see Sir John in the morning. I will arrange an interview.”
“In the morning!” said the other contemptuously. “Suppose you make the arrangement, what would happen? When I went up there I should find a couple of cops waiting to pinch me. I know John! I’m going to see him to-night.”
“I think not,” said Timothy, and the man stared at him.
“You think not?” he said. “What has it to do with you?”