And the letter that Keane had received that night was to the effect that the man who proposed marrying his daughter was a bankrupt and a beggar, and would that evening be arrested in his own house and among his guests.
Having effectually disposed of Sir Digby for a time, Richards could afford to quietly await the turn of events. His practice had been sharp, but it was certainly justifiable. He had often hinted to his partner Keane, nay, even told him plainly, that the baronet was but a man of straw.
“Owes a few thousands perhaps,” Keane had replied, with an ill-concealed sneer. “They all do it. A post-obit would clear that up. His brother can’t live for ever. Sir Digby will be a lord, you know, on his brother’s death.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Richards had gone so far as to exclaim one day: “if I were you I’d pay Digby’s debts for him. Ten thou., I reckon, would do it. But I shouldn’t marry my only daughter to a beggar!”
Keane turned on him sharply.
“Richards,” he said, as calmly as he could, “I knew a gentleman once who made an immense fortune by a very simple process.”
“Indeed; how?”
“By minding his own business.” Then Keane cackled over his ledger. Richards said no more. But the idea of Keane, of all men, paying off a future son-in-law’s debts was too absurd.
When Richards went to Keane’s house a few days after Digby’s incarceration, he found his partner in the throes of packing. He was going to Italy for a time with Gerty, and of course Mary would accompany her.
Months went by, and many a long delightful letter did Richards receive from Gerty, and from Mary too, the latter always ending with “luv and sweet kisses.” Then came a final letter. They were coming home. Alas! the ship never reached England. She was captured by a Don, and all were made prisoners. Keane could have bought his liberty if he had cared to. He preferred to wait, and waiting—died.