Martin Nelthorp shook his great frame a little—as a mastiff might if suddenly stirred into activity. He was a big man, and his burly figure seemed to fill the office; his voice, when he spoke, was very deep and strong.
"What you mean," he said, fixing his keen grey eyes on the solicitor, "what you mean is that if I like I can ruin him?"
Mr. Postlethwaite smiled and bowed.
"You apprehend my meaning exactly, my dear sir," he said blandly. "Ruin is the word."
"It's not a very nice word to hear or to use in connection with any man," said Martin Nelthorp.
Mr. Postlethwaite coughed. But the smile remained round his clean-shaven lips.
"The ruin of most men, my dear friend," he said oracularly, "is brought about by themselves."
"Just so," said Martin Nelthorp. "All the same, the finishing touch is generally put to things by somebody else. You're sure Sutton's as badly off as what you make out?"
Mr. Postlethwaite fingered his papers and turned to some memoranda. He scribbled certain figures on a scrap of paper and faced his client.
"The position, my dear Mr. Nelthorp," he said, "is exactly this. You hold a first and second mortgage on Sutton's flour mill and on his house and land—in fact, on his entire property, and the sum you have advanced represents every penny of the full value. You are now wanting, principal and interest, exactly nine thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three pounds, ten shillings, and fourpence. He cannot pay this money—indeed, I question if he could by any chance find one-fourth of it, and you are in a position to foreclose at once."