“Go to bed,” he said at length; “I’ve something to do. Sleep all you can; you’ll need it. I shall stay here ‘till I’m ready to go, and come for you in the morning.”
“Thank you,” she answered, and rose quietly. “Good-night!” she said.
“Oh! good-night, Mrs. De-de-liah—superb Jo-Jones!”
He laughed as she went—sat ogling the fire for a little while, and then unsteadily, but not unconsciously, drew a pocket-book from his pocket and took out a small package. It contained several notes, amounting to not less than a hundred thousand dollars signed by himself, and indorsed by Lawrence Newt & Co.—at least the name was there, and it was a shrewd eye that could detect the difference between the signature and that which was every day seen and honored in the street.
Abel looked at them carefully, and leered and glared upon them as if they had been windows through which he saw something—sunny isles, and luxury, and a handsome slave who loved him to minister to every whim.
“‘Tis a pretty game,” he said, half aloud; “a droll turnabout is life. Uncle Lawrence plays against other people, and wins. I play against Uncle Lawrence, and win. But what’s un-dred—sousand—to—him?”
He said it drowsily, and his hands unconsciously fell. He was asleep in his chair.
He sat there sleeping until the gray of morning. Kitty Dunham, coming into the room ready-dressed for a journey, found him there. She was frightened; for he looked as if he were dead. Going up to him she shook him, and he awoke heavily.
“What the h——‘s the matter?” said he, as he opened his sleepy eyes.
“Why, it’s time to go.”