"My business is with her father," he said. "It is a private matter, a transaction between us two, and has to do with a bit of commercial paper."
"Quite so," said Weir. "Have the goodness to permit me to see that paper."
"Eh?" Nevens seemed straining to hear. "What do you say?"
"Show me the bill."
"You must speak louder," said Nevens. "My hearing is not good. Once it was excellent; I heard everything; but it has grown quite bad. In dealing with me you must speak plainly; even then, sometimes," and he shook his head, "I scarce hear a word."
"And this, I take it, is one of the times," said Weir dryly. "Nevertheless," and he looked fixedly into the little ferret's face and spoke slowly, "I think you'll understand what I'm going to say. First, it's very well known that you are a mere instrument of the Bulfinches; the bills they place in your hands under the pretense that you have bought them they know to be desperate ones and not easily realized."
"I will speak with her father," said Nevens, hopping about. "I cannot hear you. And I do not know you. It's her father who must pay, and it's he who must present himself."
"Second," said Weir composedly, "this bill names no definite time for payment; it states no rate of interest; it bears no indorser's name."
"Must I be robbed!" cried Nevens. "Am I to be dragooned and my money mishandled because it was loaned generously."
"It may have been generosity," said Weir, "but it was old Amos Bulfinch who loaned it, and, having known him, I'm tempted to believe it was something else."