“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Mr. Trimmer, sorrowfully. “That comes of my going away. I ought to have locked up the check-book. I suppose the young man came here to see his grandfather and stole the checks.”
“No, he never came—at least only once, and just for a moment. Then, his grandfather was so insulting that he only stayed a few minutes. That was when he came to say good-bye. But Mrs. Swinton came, trying to get money for the boy.”
“I must see Mr. Herresford about this.” Trimmer 177 walked mechanically upstairs to the former bedroom, quite forgetting that his master would not be there. He came out again with a short, sharp exclamation of anger, and at last found the old man in the turret room.
Herresford was reading a long deed left by his lawyer, and on a chair by his bedside was a pile of documents.
“Good morning, sir,” said Trimmer, in exactly the same tone as always during the last forty years, and he cast his eye around the untidy room.
“Oh, it’s you? Back again, eh?” grunted the miser. “About time, too! How long is it since valets have taken to doing the grand tour, and taking three months’ holiday without leave of their masters?”
“I gave myself leave, sir,” replied Trimmer, nonchalantly.
“And what right have you to take holidays without my permission?”
“You discharged me, sir—but I thought better of it.”
A grunt was the only answer to this impertinence.