“Half-past ten, sir.”
“All locked up? Servants gone to bed?”
“Yes, Sir Luke.”
“That’ll do, then, without Mr Tom wants some more hot water.”
“No; I’m in hot water enough,” growled Tom, lighting a cigar, and the butler withdrew.
For some few minutes there was no sound but the click of the billiard balls, as the squire, forgetful entirely of the game, kept on knocking the red here, the white there, while Tom Candlish paced up and down, cue in hand, emitting regular puffs of smoke, as if he were some angry machine moved by an internal fire.
Doors were heard to shut here and there, and then all was silent in the old place save the regular pacing about of Tom, the squire’s hasty tread, and the clicking of the billiard balls.
“Now, then!” cried Tom, at last; “are you going to let me have that money?”
“No,” said the squire, coolly enough. “I wouldn’t let you have it now for your bullying. I’m a hound and a cur, am I, my lad?”
“Yes, you are a despicable hound and a miserable cur, and if the old man had known—”