"Why, then—in plain words, my dear Beverley,—he's suffering from an acute attack of the Jews, dammem!—a positive seizure, sir!"
"Do you mean he has been taken—for debt?"
"Precisely, my dear fellow. An old affair—ages ago—a stab in the dark! Nothing very much, in fact a mere bagatelle, only, as luck will have it, I am damnably short myself just now."
"How much is it?"
"Altogether exactly twenty-five pound ten. An absurd sum, but all my odd cash is on the race. So I ventured here on my young friend's behalf to ask for a trifling loan,—a pound—or say thirty shillings would be something."
Barnabas crossed to a cabinet, unlocked a drawer, and taking thence a smallish bag that jingled, began to count out a certain sum upon the table.
"You said twenty-five pounds ten, I think?" said Barnabas, and pushed that amount across the table. Mr. Smivvle stared from the money to Barnabas and back again, and felt for his whisker with fumbling fingers.
"Sir," he said, "you can't—you don't mean to—to—"
"Yes," said Barnabas, turning to re-lock the drawer. Mr. Smivvle's hand dropped from his whiskers, indeed, for the moment he almost seemed to have forgotten their existence.
"Sir," he stammered, "I cannot allow—no indeed, sir! Mr. Beverley, you overwhelm me—"