He turned on her savagely. “What ha’ ye told her?”
“Me? Never a word.”
“Then what did she mean by saying she wasna for sale? . . . God! she must ha’ heard—”
“Guessed maybe. Why did ye tell her the man had come into a heap o’ money? I warned ye to go canny.”
He flung her from him and got up. “Let her guess what she likes, think what she likes, do what she likes—but she’s no going to beat me. I’ll find a way! I’ll manage her yet! Ten thousand—twenty—maybe twenty-five thousand pound—no, by heavens, I’m not to be done out o’ that by a stubborn lass.”
“Let be, John. Ye ha’ siller enough. Ye dinna spend a trifle o’ your income. Ye’ll rue the day that ye cheated your sister’s daughter, for that’s what it comes to.”
“Hold your silly tongue, woman. I’ve cheated nobody but myself.”
She shook her head, saying, “I would like to read Hugh Carstairs’ letter again.”
“Ye’re welcome—another time. There’s the paper at last.” He almost ran to the front door.
He returned, opening the paper at the financial page. Seating himself, he cleared a space on the table and laid it thereon. Then his thick forefinger began to move down one of the columns as though it was feeling for something. At last it stopped, and he gazed awhile. . . . His breath went in with a hiss. “Zeniths!” he muttered.