“I won’t keep you, Rumsey. That will do,” said Mr Penwynn, and, as the doctor rose to go, he turned to the banker,—
“Is—is there any hope about those shares, Mr Penwynn? Will the mine finally pay?” he said, piteously.
“If it takes every penny I’ve got to make it pay, Rumsey.—Yes,” said the banker, sternly. “I am not a scoundrel.”
“No, no, of course not,” cried the doctor, excitedly, as he snatched a grain of hope from the other’s words. “But would you sell if you were me?”
“If you can find any one to buy—at any price—yes,” said the banker, quietly; and the grain of hope seemed to be snatched away.
As the doctor was leaving, Rhoda lay in wait to go to her father’s room, but the vicar came up, and she hastily retired.
“Mr Lee? What does he want?” said the banker, peevishly. “Where is he?”
“In the drawing-room, sir.”
Mr Penwynn rose, and followed the man to where the vicar was standing by the drawing-room table.
“You’ll excuse me, Mr Penwynn,” he said, anxiously; “but is Mr Trethick here?”