“Serious as a horseshoe.”
“Well, well, that don’t matter, I never take people by their looks. Sometimes the freshest and the finest go first. You know that well, Andrew Britton.”
“That’s very true,” said Britton, “as one we know—a tall proper man enough—you recollect—his name was—”
“Peace! Peace! Do you want to drive me mad, Andrew Britton? Where is your hope, but in me? What—what other resource have you? Fiend! Do you dare thus to call up the hideous past to blast me? Peace—peace, I say, Andrew Britton. Leave me—our conference is over.”
“Not quite.”
“It is—it is. Go—there’s money.”
He threw his purse to Britton as he spoke, and then cried,—
“Go, go. Go at once.”
“You forget,” said Britton, as he coolly pocketed the money, “that I came here to tell you something particular.”
“What is it?”