The Earl stood silent, his right hand closed down on the hilt of his sword, his eyes on Mr. Hilton, who took a sharp turn about the room, then stopped before him.
"What are your debts?" he asked; and his fingers were busily caressing his watch-chain. "How much do you owe the Jews, and what is the mortgage on Lyndwood? But no matter, that is a business affair, we must see the lawyers," he smiled; "all shall be paid—every penny," his smile deepened; "it is good to have money, is it not, my lord?"
"It is necessary," said my lord, and he also smiled. "As I have found——"
Mr. Hilton moved slowly away and contemplated Rose Lyndwood out of wholly triumphant eyes.
The great chamber, the rich paintings, the gilt mirrors were his, bought with his money; this man, Rose Lyndwood, eighteenth Earl of Lyndwood, aristocrat and proud, the most famous beau in town, this man was his also, bought as surely as the gaudy furniture against which he stood. This was Mr. Hilton's crude thought, and the Earl read it.
"You are satisfied?" he asked in a tone that was an insult.
"I am satisfied, my lord; the debts within a week, the wedding within a month."
Rose Lyndwood picked up his gloves; Mr. Hilton waited for him to speak; when the words came they were unexpected.
"May I see Miss Hilton?" His voice was courteous again.