“Yes; of course. I’ll put some cigars in the pocket. Would you wear the diamond studs?”
“No. Not a ring, even. Go in black, and hardly speak a word. Do nothing but look the millionaire. The simpler you dress, my dear sir, the richer they will think you.”
“My dear Litton, you’re a treasure—damme, that you are, sir! I say, look here: you don’t happen to want five, or ten, or twenty this morning, do you?”
Mr Arthur Litton did happen to want twenty, not five or ten; and a couple of crisp notes were thrust into his hand.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right, Litton. I shall look out for you there, then; but it’s a deuce of a way to go.”
“It’s worth going to, if it were double the distance, I can assure you. You have money; you want position.”
“All right, then; that’s settled. I’m going to the City now. Are you going in?”
“No, thanks; I shall sit down and do a little writing.”
“Very good; you’ll find the cigars on the shelf.”
“What, those cigars?” He spoke with a slight emphasis on the “those.” “No, thanks; they have too strong a flavour of a hundred-pound bill.”