“To-morrow?”
“No.”
“When then?”
“Depends on how matters turn out,” said Thompson meaningly. “I suppose if I wanted a friend I might depend on you?”
“Of course, of course,” cried the squire eagerly.
“Thanks,” said Cousin Thompson. “I shall not forget, but I don’t think I shall want any help. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Tom Candlish warmly.
A wish of a mutual character, expressed in a contraction—that God might be with two as utter scoundrels as ever communed together over a half-hatched plot.
“Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, as he entered the Manor that night, “I have been thinking over matters, and you need not say much to your master, but I feel it to be my duty to stay here for the present, and look after his affairs.”
“But really, sir—”