“It would start me in life again, sir,” said Frank, sadly; “but I should not feel justified in commencing upon borrowed capital at high interest.”
“Did I say a word about borrowed capital or high interest?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Yes, yes—of course—I know—old Grind-’em will have sixty per cent, they say, eh? But look here, suppose I were to give you five hundred pounds to start with!”
“Give! give! Give me five hundred pounds in hard cash, sir! Mr Richards, why do you play with my feelings?”
“Play, young man?” said the money-lender quietly. “I am not playing—I am in earnest. I tell you that I will give you, now, this minute, five hundred pounds. There,” he said, “give me that cheque book,” and he pointed to a safe in the wall. “I’ll write you one now this instant; and with five hundred pounds you have the key to a fortune. You may die rich as I am, Frank Marr.”
“But you have a condition: you wish to buy something with this five hundred pounds, Mr Richards,” said Frank sternly.
“I only want five minutes of your time,” said the old man.
“What to do?”
“To write half a dozen lines at my dictation.”