For a moment longer the prince stared, hate and perplexity in equal measure tincturing his regard. Then slowly the look of doubt gave way to the ghost of a crafty smile.
What a blazing fool the fellow was (he thought) to accept a cheque on which payment could be stopped before banking hours in the morning—!
Such fatuity seemed incredible. Yet there it was, egregious, indisputable. Why not profit by it, turn it to his own advantage? To secure what he had sought, the letters concealed between the canvases, and turn them against Sofia, and to play this Lanyard for a fool, all at one stroke—the opportunity was too rich to be slighted.
He dissembled his exultation—or plumed himself on doing so.
“Very well,” he mumbled, sulkily. “I’ll draw the cheque.”
“That’s the right spirit!” Lanyard declared, and escorted him to the desk.
A knock sounded. Lanyard called: “Come in!” A sleepy manservant, half-dressed and warm from his bed, entered.
“You rang, sir?”
“Yes, Harris.” Lanyard tossed him a sovereign. “Sorry to rout you out so late, but I need a cab. Whistle up a growler, will you?”
“’Nk-you, sir.”