“Yes—of course you would,” retorted St. George with a cynical laugh, slipping on his gloves. “Pay it?—of course pay it. Pay everything and everybody! What do you think I'd bring at auction, Pawson? I'm white, you know, and so I can't be sold on the block—but the doctors might offer you a trifle for cutting-up purposes. Bah! Hand me my coat, Todd.”
A deprecatory smile flitted across the long, thin face of the attorney. He saw that St. George was in no mood for serious things, and yet something must be done; certainly before the arrival of Gorsuch himself, who was known to be an exact man of business and who would have his rights, no matter who suffered.
“I had a little plan, sir—but you might not fall in with it. It would, perhaps, be only temporary, but it is all I can think of. I had an applicant this morning—in fact it came within an hour after I had heard the news. It seemed almost providential, sir.”
St. George was facing the door, ready to leave the house, his shoulders still bent forward so that Todd could adjust his heavy cloak the better, when for the first time the anxious tone in Pawson's voice caught his attention. As the words fell from the attorney's lips he straightened, and Todd stepped back, the garment still in the darky's hands.
“An applicant for what?” he inquired in a graver tone. He was not surprised—nothing surprised him in these days—he was only curious.
“For the rooms you occupy. I can get enough for them, sir, not only to clear up the back interest, but to keep the mortgage alive and—”
St. George's face paled as the full meaning of Pawson's proposal dawned in his mind. That was the last thing he had expected.
“Turn me into the street, eh?” There was a note of pained surprise in his voice.
“I don't want you to put it that way, sir.” His heart really bled for him—it was all he could do to control himself.
“How the devil else can I put it?”