“Antony Grace thinks, Mr Rowle, that as you have the reputation of being a wealthy man—”
“Wealthy! why I lost five hundred pounds slap the other day by—Dear me! Bless my soul! Oh, tut—tut—tut! What an ass I am!” he muttered, taking refuge in a tremendous pinch of snuff, half of which powdered his white waistcoat and cravat.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Miss Carr quietly.
“Oh, it was nothing. Pray go on, my dear young lady.”
“Antony Grace thought that you might seek him out, and get into his confidence a little, and at last, after a show of interest in his work, ask him to let you become a sharer in the affair, on condition of your finding the necessary funds.”
“Of your money?” said the old man, with a slight show of suspicion.
“Of course, Mr Rowle. Then, if he would consent, which he might do, thinking that he was favouring you, the matter would be settled.”
“To be sure. Of course,” said Mr Jabez thoughtfully. “And how far would you go, my dear young lady—forty or fifty pounds?”
“As far as was necessary, Mr Rowle. As many hundreds as he required.”
Mr Jabez tapped his box, and sat thinking, gazing wonderingly and full of admiration at the animated countenance before him, as he softly bowed his head up and down.