“Of course,” said Mr. Williamson, lighting another cigar.
“I asked for the return of the fees which I had paid, and was informed that no fees were ever returned. I felt that I had been swindled, but still could not rest until I had undergone an examination by our own surgeon, and been reported sound in wind and limb.”
“Well,” said Mr. Wilkinson, “you have been making experience; your story grows in interest; make a clean breast of it, perhaps I can help you.”
“I did not know what to do next; somehow these advertisements attracted my attention again. I found one which really did seem honest. It stated that gentlemen in the army and others requiring temporary loans might obtain them with strict privacy on application to Mr. Jefferson Crawley, at Titchwell-street West. I wrote to Mr. Crawley, determined not to be done a second time. I was desired to call, and with some difficulty I found the place—rather a queer place, too; through a mews, and in a back, out-of-the-way corner I found a shabby-looking office, and entered. A small boy sat at a small desk and said his master was out, and whilst he was saying so a girl came into the office by a flight of stairs at the back.”
“Oh, there’s a woman in the case, is there?” said Mr. Wilkinson, in a somewhat cynical tone.
Paul threw the stump end of a cigar out of window, and coughed to conceal some little confusion which this part of the narrative occasioned him.
“I know you will say I have been a fool,” he said, with unusual energy; “but I can’t help it.”
“The first part of the confession has a good sound—confession and then repentance; but ‘can’t help it’ is a horse of another colour. Out with the whole story, my friend; you will find me mum as a priest, and I’ll give you absolution, too.”
“A beautiful-looking girl she was; I was quite struck by her appearance—so unexpected, you know.”
“Yes; go on,” said Mr. Williamson.