The Scotchman nodded assent. Before he could do more, the stranger continued:
“Pardon me, sir, for this seeming intrusion. I’ve heard that your house is to let.”
“Not exactly to let. I’m offering it for sale—that is, the lease.”
“I’ve been misinformed then. How long has the lease to run, may I ask?”
“Twenty-one years.”
“Ah! that will not suit me. I wanted a house only for a short time. I’ve taken a fancy to this South Bank—at least, my wife has; and you know, sir—I presume you’re a married man—that’s everything.”
McTavish did know it, to a terrible certainty: and gave an assenting smile.
“I’m sorry,” pursued the stranger. “I like the house better than any on the Bank. I know my wife would be charmed with it.”
“It’s the same with mine,” said McTavish.
“How you lie?” thought Mrs Mac, with her ear at the keyhole.