“That depends upon the drawer.”
“I don’t care who the drawer is. I won’t pay it. I don’t care even if it’s Smithers & Co. I’ll settle all when I’m ready. I’m not going to be bullied any longer. I’ve borne enough. You needn’t look so very grand,” he continued, pettishly; “I see through you, and you can’t keep up this sort of thing much longer.”
“You appear to hint that you know who I am?”
“Something of that sort,” said Potts, rudely; “and let me tell you I don’t care who you are.”
“That depends,” rejoined the other, calmly, “very much upon circumstances.”
“So you see,” continued Potts, “you won’t get any thing out of me—not this time,” he added.
“My draft,” said the stranger, “is different from those which were presented at the bank counter.”
He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a tone which seemed like the tread of some inevitable Fate advancing upon its victim. Potts felt an indefinable fear stealing over him in spite of himself. He said not a word.
“My draft,” continued the stranger, in a tone which was still more aggressive in its dominant and self-assertive power—“my draft was drawn twenty years ago.”
Potts looked wonderingly and half fearfully at him.