Sir Richard was trembling.
“Between one and two, mind. Hang it! Shir Richard, don't you be a fool about nothing,” whispers the Jew, as black as thunder.
He is fumbling in his breast-pocket, and pulling out a sheaf of letters; he selects one, which he throws upon the parchment that lies open on the table.
“That'sh the note you forgot in my offish yeshterday, with hish name shined to it. There, now you have everything.”
Without any form of valediction, the Jew had left the room. Sir Richard sits with his teeth set, and a strange frown upon his face, scarcely breathing. He hears the cab drive away. Before him on the table lie the papers.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
SIR RICHARD'S RESOLUTION.
