“He’s gone, sir,” said Gower.
“Gone? why gone? he always waits for me—there’s nothing wrong with Livingstone, I hope? Why, he’s a better man than I by most a year.”
“He’s lost much money, sir, they say—he said he couldn’t wait.”
“Lost? lost money? Oh, yes—all gone, gone—No, no—wait till my son Charlie gets down-town—he’s a bright boy; he’ll carry on the old house, and show you boys a wrinkle, eh?”
No man there ventured to speak; for his son Charlie had died, some time back in the fifties.
Suddenly Mr. Townley began to laugh. “Aha, Dick Livingstone, we’ll show the boys a turn or two—but where is he? Tamms—I know—my God—he’s a rascal—it’s gone, all gone.”
The old man tottered toward his seat in the window. It was just before the list of members; and all were silent in suspense. Would he see his name, where Livingstone had crossed it off? But suddenly a firm hand was laid on the old man’s elbow. “Come home with me, sir. I’ve got a carriage waiting.” It was Lionel Derwent.
“Ah, Mr. Derwent—glad to see you.” His wan face lighted up with pleasure; and he seemed to think he was talking again with Derwent in the office. “Yes, it’s a good stock—always was a good stock since Townley & Son managed it. Come home, you say? Yes, I think—I’m not quite well. Good-by, my boys.”
Derwent led his tottering steps to the door. He smiled vacantly, but leaned heavily on Derwent’s arm. No longer prey for Tamms, nor fitting object for a sheriff’s care, or other troubles of this world. They passed the silent group about the centre-table, which made way respectfully.
“Don’t forget the picture, Gower,” said he, as Derwent led him from the door.