“Let us recapitulate the facts. I have at different periods within the last several years lent you sums of money secured on your landed estates at Ceswick’s Ness and the neighbourhood, amounting in all”—referring to a paper—“to one hundred and seventy-six thousand five hundred and thirty-eight pounds ten shillings and fourpence; or, reckoning in the overdue interest, to one hundred and seventy-nine thousand and fifty-two pounds eight shillings. That is so, I think.”
“Yes, I suppose so, Cardus.”
“There is no supposition about it. The documents prove it.”
“Well, Cardus?”
“Well, Mr. de Talor; and now, as you cannot pay, I have instructed my London agents to commence an action in Chancery for the sale of the lands, and to buy in the property. It is a most desirable property.”
“O Cardus, don’t be rough on me! I am an old man now, and you led me into this speculation.”
“Mr. de Talor, I also am an old man; if not very old in years, at least as old as Methuselah in heart.”
“I don’t understand it all, Cardus.”
“It will give me the greatest pleasure to explain. But to do so I must go back a little. Some ten or twelve years ago, you may remember,” he began, sitting down with his back to the light, which struck full on the wretched De Talor’s face, “that a firm named Rastrick and Codley took out a patent for a new railway-grease, and set up an establishment in Manchester not far from the famous De Talor house, which was established by your father.”
“Yes, curse them!” groaned De Talor.