Dickey rose from the table. His movements showed his age that night.
"I'll think it over, David," he said. "There's more in this than meets the eye. I'll just go home an' think it over. Mebbe I'll call at your place in the mornin'."
So here was Verity, awaiting Bulmer's visit as a criminal awaits a hangman. There was no shred of hope in his mind that his one-time crony would raise a finger to save him from bankruptcy. Some offenses are unforgivable, and high in the list ranks the folly of separating a wealthy old man from his promised bride.
Now that a reprieve was seemingly impossible, he faced his misfortunes with a dour courage. It had been a difficult and thankless task during the past month to stave off pressing creditors. With Iris in Bootle and Bulmer her devoted slave, Verity would have weathered the gale with jaunty self-confidence. But that element of strength was lacking; nay, more, he felt in his heart that it could never be replaced. He was no longer the acute, blustering, effusive Verity, who in one summer's afternoon had secured a rich partner and forced an impecunious sailor to throw away a worn-out ship. The insurance held good, of course, and there simply must be some sort of tidings of the Andromeda to hand before the end of September. Yet things had gone wrong, desperately wrong, and he was quaking with the belief that there was worse in store.
He began to read his letters. They were mostly in the same vein, duns, more or less active. His managing clerk entered.
"There's an offer of 5s. 6d. Cardiff to Bilbao and Bilbao to the Tyne for the Hellespont. It is better than nothing. Shall we take it, sir?"
The Hellespont was the firm's other ship. She, too, was old and running at a loss.
"Yes. Wot is it, coal or patent fuel?"
"Coal, with a return freight of ore."
"Wish it was dynamite, with fuses laid on."