The pile of papers for signature had melted to one solitary document, the floor was strewn with the evidences of Mr. Simnel's handiwork, and Mr. Simnel himself sat nursing his leg and swaying himself gently to and fro in meditation. Occasionally he would pass his disengaged hand through his fringe of hair, and smile quietly to himself, then make a few figures on his blotting-pad, add them, and set-to rocking again. In the midst of this occupation he heard his door open, and looking up, saw Mr. Beresford.
"Why, what the deuce does this mean?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "I thought you were on Tom Tiddler's ground, picking up unlimited gold and silver, wooing heiresses, and settling a Belgravian ménage; and you turn up in this dingy old barrack. Is it all over?--has the lady succumbed? and do you want me to help you to choose fire-irons and window-curtains?"
Mr. Beresford did not reply for a minute; then he said, shortly and decisively, "I've been sold!"
Mr. Simnel gave one short, loud whistle, and said interrogatively, "Wouldn't?"
Mr. Beresford, seating himself on the edge of the table, looked up at Mr. Simnel, who had taken up his position on the rug, with his back to the empty fireplace, and said, "No chance; booked beforehand!"
Whereupon Mr. Simnel gave a louder whistle, and said, "Tell!"
"You know how I stand, Simnel, well enough," said Mr. Beresford; "and this looked a very safe coup, I thought, specially after I got your telegram. There were two or three fellows staying down at Bissett who I thought were on, too. Man named Lyster; do you know him?--tall man, dark beard, yaw-haw beast, from Indian army."
"I know him!" was all Mr. Simnel's reply to this flattering sketch.
"And another man, newspaper man, belongs to the 'Retrenchment' and the 'Fly-by-night;' Churchill, you know."
"I know Churchill. Was he going in for an heiress?"