“And he is shamming illness again because he expected me to-day. But it won’t do, Horace—it won’t do. Come, now, he’s quite well, isn’t he? Don’t turn against your own cousin, and back him up.”
“Tom Candlish is as well as a man can be under such horrible circumstances. His brother is dead.”
“Phew!” whistled the lawyer—a long-drawn, low, deep whistle. “Then he is now Sir Thomas Candlish.”
“Yes, and if you have lent him money at usury it will be all right.”
“At usury!” snarled the lawyer; “don’t you be so fond of using that word. I must make money, and lending at interest is fair enough.”
“Where are you going?”
“Going down to the Hall at once.”
“You said you had come to lunch.”
“Hang your lunch! I must see Tom Candlish.”
“Impossible. It would not be decent to go on business now.”