“Of course, of course, Mr. Aston. I quite understand. It is not the sort of news we tell people every day.”
Christopher sat on the edge of the sofa with his eyes fixed on Cæsar.
“Are you sure it won’t keep,” he asked abruptly, “you look rather tired for business, Cæsar.”
“It won’t keep. It concerns Peter Masters. Mr. Saunderson says public rumour has underestimated his fortune rather than exaggerated it. He was worth nearly three millions.”
“Three millions six hundred and forty-one thousand.” Mr. Saunderson rolled it out in sonorous tones after a little smack of his lips that set Christopher’s teeth on edge.
“It seems, Christopher,” Aymer went on, with an abruptness that did not accord with his opening words, “that it’s yours. You are his heir.”
He made not the smallest movement or sign by which the two strangers could gather one passing glimpse of the agony it cost him to say it, for their attention was fixed on the younger man. But Christopher saw nothing else and had thought for nothing but how soonest to quench that fierce pain. 311
The preposterous catastrophe was evidently true, but surely his own will and wishes were of some account. He put his hand on Aymer, searching for words which would not form into sense.
“Take your time, take your time, young man,” broke in Mr. Saunderson’s resonant voice. “It’s not the sort of event a man can be hurried over. You will grasp it more clearly in a few minutes.”
Christopher turned and looked at him.