That was a lie to be sure; but it served his purpose. Guy was a child at business, and believed whatever nonsense Nevitt chose to foist upon him.
The journalist rose and paced the room twice or thrice with a frantic air of unspeakable misery.
“I shall lose my place at our bank, no doubt,” Nevitt went on, in a resigned tone. “But that doesn’t much matter. Though a temporary loan—I could pay every penny in six weeks if I’d time—a temporary loan would set things all straight again.”
“I wish to heaven Cyril was here,” Guy exclaimed, in piteous tones.
“He is, practically, when you’re here,” Nevitt answered, with a knowing smile. “You can act as his deputy.”
“How do you mean?” Guy asked, turning round upon him open-mouthed.
Nevitt paused, and smiled sweetly.
“This is his cheque-book, I think,” he replied, in the oblique retort, picking it up and looking at it. He tore out a cheque, as if pensively and by accident.
“That’s a precious odd thing,” he went on, “that you showed me the other day, don’t you know, about your signature and Cyril’s being so absolutely identical.”
Guy gazed at him in horror. “Oh, don’t talk about that!” he cried, running his hand through his hair. “If I were even to entertain such an idea for a moment, my self-respect would be gone for ever.”