It was three o’clock when Ravenscar said: “It is growing late. I make it four thousand, my lord.”
“Four thousand,” Ormskirk repeated blankly. He looked at Ravenscar, not seeing him, wondering which of his horses he would be obliged to sell, knowing if he sold all he would be unable to extricate himself from his embarrassment. Mechanically he opened his delicate Sevres snuff box, and took a pinch. “You will have to give me time,” he said, hating the need to speak these words.
“Certainly,” Ravenscar replied. One of the candles was guttering; he snuffed it. “Or you might prefer to let me purchase from you the mortgage on Lady Bellingham’s house,” he said coolly.
Ormskirk stared at him for a moment. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. He said with an edge to his smooth voice, “What’s your object, Ravenscar?”
“I have told you.”
“The mortgage is for five thousand: it may be worth some thing over four.”
“We need not haggle over the figure, I suppose. I will give you five thousand for it.”
“You would appear to cherish an unusual degree of affection for your young relative,” Ormskirk said, his lips curling in faint sneer.
Ravenscar shrugged. “The boy is in some sort my responsibility.”
“It is gratifying to meet with such a sense of duty in these days. Yet it seems to me that you are paying high for hi salvation, my dear Ravenscar!”