"Is he dead?" enquired Mr. Torrens, his excitement now becoming absolutely intolerable.
"No, sir—he isn't dead exactly—but——"
"But what?" cried Torrens, trembling from head to foot.
"He's bolted, sir!" was the astounding answer.
"Absconded!" murmured Mr. Torrens faintly;—and, reeling like a drunken man, he would have fallen had he not come in contact with the wall.
Yes—it was indeed too true: Mr. Howard—the cold, phlegmatic, matter-of-fact, business-like lawyer—had decamped no one knew whither, though numbers had to mourn or curse his flight!
"Are you ill, sir?" enquired one of the clerks, at the expiration of a few moments; for Mr. Torrens was leaning against the side of the room, his countenance pale as death, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, and his limbs trembling convulsively.
"No—no—I shall be better in a minute," groaned the unhappy man. "But this blow—is cruel—indeed!" he gasped in a choking voice. "Two thousand pounds—ruin—ruin!"
"Ah! there's many who'll be ruined by this smash, sir," said the clerk: "you're not the only one—and that's a consolation."
A consolation indeed!