“Eccentric, my dear sir, eccentric. Now, then, you see why I returned you the cheque. Morning.”
Crampton took out his silk pocket-handkerchief, and began to polish his glasses as he gazed hard at his employer after following Uncle Luke to the door, which was closed sharply.
“Poor Harry Vine!” said Van Heldre sadly. “Combining with another to rob himself. Surely the ways of sin are devious, Crampton?”
“Yes,” said the old man thoughtfully. “I wish I had waited till you got well.”
“Too late to think of that, Crampton,” said Van Heldre sadly. “When do you go to Pradelle’s trial?”
“There, sir, you’ve been an invalid, and you’re not well yet. Suppose we keep that trouble buried, and let other people dig it up, and I’ll go when I’m obliged. I suppose you don’t want to screen him?”
“I screen him?”
“Hah!” ejaculated the old clerk, who began rubbing his hands, “then I’m all right there. I should like to see that fellow almost hung—not quite.”
“Poor wretch!”
“Know anything about—eh?”