She entered the room, looking quite calm, but very pale, and the blue rings about her eyes told of her sufferings and anxiety. There was a slight heightening of her colour, though, for a few moments, as the visitor advanced with extended hand, in which she placed hers for a few moments before motioning him to a seat.
“How’s the doctor?” he said huskily, and then coughed to clear his throat.
“Very, very ill, Mr Poynter,” was the reply. “I am sorry, but I must ask you to please see Doctor Maurice, who has promised to attend any of my father’s patients if they called.”
“Oh! bother Doctor Maurice! I’m better now. Quite well.”
James Poynter had partaken of the greater portion of a bottle of champagne before he came, so as to screw himself up, as he termed it; and there was plenty of decision of a rude and vulgar type as he spoke.
“I beg your pardon; I thought you had come to consult my father. You have come to see how he was?”
“No, I didn’t? You know what I’ve come for.”
Richmond did know, and perfectly well; but as she scorned to make use of farther subterfuge, she remained silent.
“I’m a plain fellow, Miss Rich, and I know what’s what,” he said, “Hendon and I’ve had lots of chats together about money matters, and you want money now.”
“Mr Poynter!”