Chilcote leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. “There will be several things to consider—” he began, nervously, looking across at the other.
“Quite so.” Loder glanced back appreciatively. “I thought about those things the better part of last night. To begin with, I must study your handwriting. I guarantee to get it right, but it will take a month.”
“A month!”
“Well, perhaps three weeks. We mustn't make a mess of things.”
Chilcote shifted his position.
“Three weeks!” he repeated. “Couldn't you—?”
“No; I couldn't.” Loder spoke authoritatively. “I might never want to put pen to paper, but, on the other hand, I might have to sign a check one day.” He laughed. “Have you ever thought of that?—that I might have to, or want to, sign a check?”
“No. I confess that escaped me.”
“You risk your fortune that you, may keep the place it bought for you?” Loder laughed again. “How do you know that I am not a blackguard?” he added. “How do you know that I won't clear out one day and leave you high and dry? What is to prevent John Chilcote from realizing forty or fifty thousand pounds and then making himself scarce?”
“You won't do that,” Chilcote said, with unusual decision. “I told you your weakness last night; and it wasn't money. Money isn't the rock you'll split over.”