“It is false! I don’t owe you a penny.”
The tailor shook his head.
“I can’t afford to lose it, Sir Richard; and you can’t say but what I want to make it easy for you with them bills.”
“I do not want anything made easy for me,” cried the young man; “I can pay my just debts.”
“And, don’t you see, sir, it wouldn’t be pleasant for you if I was to write to your parents and guardians—leastwise, as you have no parents, your guardians—and ask them?”
“Write to them, and so will I.”
“But I don’t want to do such a shabby thing about a gent as I’ve tried to oblige.”
“I tell you I never authorised anyone to borrow money for me, sir.”
“Well, Sir Richard Frayne, Baronet, there’s the transaction down in a neat handwriting in my book, and I give a cheque for it, and there’s the cheque as come back from the bank with your name on the back, as well as Mr Mark Frayne’s on the receipt.”
“What?”