“‘No, I don’t,’ I said, speaking as sharply as he did; ‘I want that fifty pounds to leave with poor old aunt. I can’t and won’t go and leave her penniless.’”
“Ah!” sighed the listener—almost groaned.
“Well, wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“Yes, yes. Go on—go on.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. I’m pretty close to the end. What do you think the old boy said?”
“I know—I know,” came back in a whisper.
“That you don’t,” cried the narrator, who, in spite of their horrible position, burst out into a ringing laugh. “He just said ‘Bah!’ and came at me as if he were going to bundle me out of the door, for he clapped his hands on my shoulders and shook me fiercely. Then he banged me down into a chair, and went to one of those old, round-fronted secretary desks, rolled up the top with a rush, took a cheque-book out of a little drawer, dashed off a cheque, signed and blotted it, and thrust it into my hand.
“‘There, it’s open,’ he said. ‘You can get it cashed at the bank, and send your aunt the fifty as soon as you’re gone. Be off at once, and don’t say a word to a soul. Here; give me back that cheque.’
“I gave it back to him.
“‘Now, swear you won’t tell a soul I lent you that money, nor that you are going off!’