“No,” said Harry fiercely; “I can’t go on like this, and I’ll have the money somehow.”
“Bravo! That’s spoken like a man who means business. Harry, if you keep to that tone, we shall make a huge fortune apiece. How will you get the money?”
“I’ll ask Duncan Leslie for it. He can’t refuse me. I should like to see him say ‘No.’ He must and he shall.”
“Then have a hundred, dear lad. Don’t be content with fifty.”
“I will not, you may depend upon that,” cried Harry, “and—”
He stopped short, and turned white, then red, and took half-a-dozen strides forward towards where Madelaine Van Heldre was seated upon one of the stone resting-places in a niche in the cliff—the very one where Duncan Leslie had had his unpleasant conversation with Aunt Marguerite.
The presence of his sister’s companion, in spite of their being slightly at odds, might have been considered pleasant to Harry Vine; and at any other time it would have been, but in this instance she was bending slightly forward, and listening to Duncan Leslie, who was standing with his back to the young men.
Only a minute before, and Harry Vine had determined that with the power given by Leslie’s evident attachment to his sister, he would make that gentleman open his cash-box or write a cheque on the Penzance bank for a hundred pounds.
The scene before him altered Harry Vine’s ideas, and sent the blood surging up to his brain.
He stepped right up to Madelaine, giving Leslie a furious glance as that gentleman turned, and without the slightest preface, exclaimed—