And this Anthony Riggleton, whom the Count described as vermin, stood in his way. Because of a quibble on his part this loathsome thing would ruin his future, dash his hopes to the ground, blacken his life.
But the alternative!
"No, of course not!" he cried.
"You refuse?"
"Certainly I do. I'm not a murderer."
"Very well, go your own way. Go to your Mr. Bidlake, see him shrug his shoulders and laugh, and then watch while your cousin—your cousin!—turns this glorious old place into a cesspool."
"Yes; rather than stain my hands in——I say, Romanoff," and the words passed his lips almost in spite of himself, "there must be some deep reason why you—you say and do all this. Do you expect to gain anything, in any way, because of my—retaining possession of my uncle's wealth?"
For the first time the Count seemed to lose possession over himself. He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing.
"What!" he cried; "do you mean that I, Romanoff, would profit by your poor little riches? What is all this to me? Why, rich as you thought you were, I could buy up all the Faversham estates—all—all, and then not know that my banking account was affected. I, Romanoff, seek to help a man whom I had thought of as my friend for some paltry gain! Good-night, Mr. Richard Faversham, you may go your own way."
"Stop!" cried Dick, almost carried away by the vehemence of the other; "of course, I did not mean——"