“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.
“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it to-morrow,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”
“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined what was passing in her bosom.
“Are you man enough to risk all—every thing—for the sake of that thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?” demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous meaning.
“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe—a proof that he considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit any abstraction of the thoughts.
“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of his inmost soul.
“Yes—I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.
“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.
“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.
“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.