"It's here," answered Christopher, tapping his breast. "In my pocket-book. Notes, big and little—so that we can settle up."
Miss Pett stretched out her hand.
"Hand it over!" she said.
Christopher gave his aunt a sidelong glance.
"Hadn't we better reckon up my costs and commission first?" he suggested. "Here's an account of the costs—the commission, of course, was to be settled between you and me."
"We'll settle all that when you've handed the money over," said Miss Pett. "I haven't counted it yet."
There was a certain unwillingness in Christopher Pett's manner as he slowly produced a stout pocket-book and took from it a thick wad of bank-notes. He pushed this across to his aunt, with a tiny heap of silver and copper.
"Well, I'm trusting to you, you know," he said a little doubtfully. "Don't forget that I've done well for you."
Miss Pett made no answer. She had taken a pair of spectacles from her pocket, and with these perched on the bridge of her sharp nose she proceeded to count the notes, while her nephew alternately sipped at his toddy and stroked his chin, meanwhile eyeing his relative's proceedings with somewhat rueful looks.
"Three thousand, four hundred and seventeen pounds, five shillings and elevenpence," and Miss Pett calmly. "And them costs, now, and the expenses—how much do they come to, Chris?"