"There's only me," said the grimy sphinx.
"Can you buy it?"
"No, I ain't no use for buying. Mr Fernandez is gone on——"
"Oh, go to the devil!"
"This is a nice sort of thing," said Leavesley to himself as he stood in Wardour Street perspiring. "There's nothing for it now but a frontal attack on uncle."
He made for Southampton Row, reaching the office at ten o'clock, about five minutes after James Hancock.
Hancock was dealing with his morning correspondence. A most unbendable old gentleman he looked as he sat at his table before a pile of letters, backed by the numerous tin boxes Leavesley knew so well. Boxes marked "The Gleeson Estate," "Sir H. Tempest, Bart," etc. Boxes that spoke of wealth and business in mocking tones to the unfortunate artist, who felt very much as the grasshopper must have felt in the presence of the industrious ant. Despite this he noticed that his uncle was more sprucely dressed than usual, and that he had on a lilac satin tie.
Hancock looked at his nephew over his spectacles, then through his spectacles, then he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead.
"Good morning, uncle."