Mr. Deane was gone; and again Stewart Routh sat over the table, scribbling figures on his blotting-pad.
"What are you doing, Stewart?"
"Five dollars to the pound--fifteen thousand," he said, "three thousand pounds! When did he say he would draw it?"
"On Tuesday, the--the day you dine with him."
"The day I dine with him! Keep it in his desk, he said, for a few days! He has grown very shy about Tokenhouse-yard. He hasn't been there for a week. The day I dine with him!" He had dropped his pen, and was slowly passing his hand over his chin.
"Stewart," said Harriet, going behind him and putting her arm round his neck--"Stewart, I know what thought you're busy with, but--"
"Do you, Harry?" said he, disengaging himself, but not unkindly--"do you? Then keep it to yourself, my girl, and get to bed. We must have that, Harry, in one way or another; we must have it."
She took up a candle, pressed her lips to his forehead, and went to her room without a word. But for full ten minutes she remained standing before the dressing-table buried in thought, and again she muttered to herself: "A great risk! A great risk!"