“Yes,” said Dick, in a more decisive way than he had displayed since the night of the ball.
“‘With Sir Mark Frayne’s best wishes to the brave soldier who saved his life.’ Sounds handsome, don’t it? ‘Messrs Roots and Company, pay Richard Smithson, or order, Five Pounds.’”
Jerry glanced at Dick, who lay back now, with his eyes closed, looking very stern.
“It’s too much,” said Jerry. “Five pound! Fippence is about all his life’s worth?”
“Have you a box of matches?”
“Yes; want a smoke, sir?”
“Light a match.”
Jerry obeyed, struck a light, and held the cheque in one hand, the wax taper in the other.
“Burn it,” said Dick, shortly.
“It’s fi’ pounds, sir; and you may want it.”