“If I live I will,” said the doctor; and, hastily catching up the money, he hurried away to conceal his emotion.
“Poor old Rumsey!” muttered Chynoweth. “He’s a good fellow, and some of these days, I dessay, I shall have to be in his hands. Oh, you’re here again, are you?”
“Mr Penwynn in his room, Chynoweth?” said Tregenna, entering unceremoniously, and going towards the door of the banker’s sanctum.
“No, sir; not come yet,” said the clerk, rising.
“All right, I’ll wait. I want to write a letter or two.”
He walked in and shut the door, while Chynoweth resumed his place.
“Nice state of affairs,” he muttered. “Who’s master here now?”
John Tregenna evidently, for he made no scruple about taking Mr Penwynn’s seat at his table, and writing letter after letter, ringing twice for Chynoweth to answer some question, and then going on with his work, over which he had been very intent for quite an hour, when there was a tap at the door.
“Come in. Well, Chynoweth, Mr Penwynn arrived?”
“No, sir. Here’s a lady, sir, wants to see you. She says she has been up to your house, and they said you were here.”