“What do you mean?”
“Forty pounds in cash, forty in old pale East India sherry, and twenty in weeds.”
“You’re an artful one, you are, Litton—’pon my soul you are. Deuced artful,” said Mr Elbraham, with a curious puckering about the corners of his eyes, intended to do duty for a smile. “But that reminds me, Huish’s bill falls due to-morrow—hundred pounds; mustn’t forget that. Here, pull out your case.”
He unlocked a little cabinet with a tiny key, and opened two or three drawers full of cigars, each with a paper band round its middle.
“Which is it to be?”
The young man smiled, and filled his case, selecting one as well for present smoking. The cabinet was reclosed; there was an interchange of nods; Elbraham went off to the station; Litton sat down and wrote a letter, after which he made a little study of a time-table, hurried off, and, catching a train, was soon after on his way to Hampton, where he was just in time to catch Lady Littletown entering her carriage for a drive.
“Ah, mon cher Arthur!” she exclaimed; “you nearly missed me. There, come in, and I’ll take you part of your way back.”
Litton mounted beside her ladyship, and took his seat as invited.
“Drive slowly,” cried her ladyship; and as the handsome barouche, with its well-appointed pair of bays, went gaily along the pleasant riverside road towards the Palace, Lady Littletown turned her sharp dark eyes searchingly upon her companion.
She was one of those elderly ladies upon whom the effect of time seems to be that of making them sharper and possessed of a keener interest in worldly matters, and one in whose aquiline features there was ample promise of her proving to be a most implacable enemy if offended. Too cautious to allow her heart to be stirred by instincts of an amatory nature, she had found consolation in looking after the matrimonial business of others; and hence her interest in her companion of the hour.