“There’s only one thing possible for it, Minnie,” he said at last, drawing a long deep breath. “I must go down to Mambury to-morrow to be beforehand with him. And I must either buy him off; or else, if that won’t do—”
“Or else what, Gilbert?”
She trembled like an aspen leaf.
“Or else get at the books in the vestry myself,” the Q.C. muttered low between his clenched teeth, “before the fellow has time to see them and prove it.”
CHAPTER XXIII. — GUY IN LUCK.
Guy Waring reached Waterloo ten minutes too late. Nevitt had gone on by the West of England express. The porter at the labelling place “minded the gentleman well.” He was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a queer look about the eyes, and a dark moustache curled round at the corners.
“Yes, yes,” Guy cried eagerly, “that’s him right enough. The eyes mark the man. And where was he going to?”
“He had his things labelled,” the porter said, “for Plymouth.”