After all, Heath might possibly have desired a picture. The fool! as if he knew anything about pictures—he, the heavy guardsman, purchase pictures!
Yet, if he was rich, that was one way of spending his money. There was nothing but what was perfectly legitimate in an artist receiving a commission;—all artists receive them.
And with this fifty pounds a fortune was within his grasp.
He no longer walked, he crawled. This money was certainly his, if he chose to take it; why should he refuse? To be sure, the money of that scoundrel! All an excuse, too: Blanche knew it was an excuse.
He quickened his pace again. He was at the banking-house: he pushed the door, and entered.
"I can return him the money to-morrow. I will say Blanche changed it. Out of my winnings I can repay it."
He handed the cheque to the cashier.
"How will you take it, sir?" demanded the cashier.
"Gold," was the brief answer.
His eyes sparkled as the fifty sovereigns were shovelled across the counter; and he left the bank with lights dancing before him.