And now the Mardykes estate was in imminent danger. Sir Bale returned, having distributed I O Us and promissory notes in all directions about him—quite at his wit's end.
Feltram was standing—as on the occasion of his former happier return—on the steps of Mardykes Hall, in the evening sun, throwing eastward a long shadow that was lost in the lake. He received him, as before, with a laugh.
Sir Bale was too much broken to resent this laugh as furiously as he might, had he been a degree less desperate.
He looked at Feltram savagely, and dismounted.
"Last time you would not trust him, and this time he would not trust you. He's huffed, and played you false."
"It was not he. I should have backed that d----d horse in any case," said Sir Bale, grinding his teeth. "What a witch you have discovered! One thing is true, perhaps. If there was a Feltram rich enough, he might have the estate now; but there ain't. They are all beggars. So much for your conjurer."
"He may make amends to you, if you make amends to him."
"He! Why, what can that wretched impostor do? D—n me, I'm past helping now."
"Don't you talk so," said Feltram. "Be civil. You must please the old gentleman. He'll make it up. He's placable when it suits him. Why not go to him his own way? I hear you are nearly ruined. You must go and make it up."
"Make it up! With whom? With a fellow who can't make even a guess at what's coming? Why should I trouble my head about him more?"