“It would be a satisfaction to me, however, to pay you the deposit you lent my wife at once.”
“Very well.”
Ogilvie filled in a cheque for two thousand pounds.
“You had better see Mrs. Ogilvie with regard to this,” he said, as he stood up. “You transacted the business with her, and you must break to her what I have already done, but what I fear she fails to believe, that the purchase cannot possibly go on. It will not be in my power, Acland, to complete it, even if I should be alive at the time.”
“I know another man only too anxious to purchase,” said Acland; “but I am deeply sorry for you—your child so ill, your own mission to Queensland a failure.”
“Yes, quite a failure. I won’t detain you any longer now. I may need your services again presently.”
Ogilvie went from the lawyer’s house straight to his own in Belgrave Square. It was in the hands of a caretaker. A seedy-looking man in a rusty black coat opened the door. He did not know Ogilvie.
“I am the master,” said Ogilvie; “let me in, please.”
The man stood aside.
“Has a telegram come for me?”