Richard carried home the news to his father. Mr. North was seated at the table in his parlour, some papers before him. He lifted his hands in dismay.
"Dead! George Massey dead! Dick, as sure as we are here, there must be something wrong about that tontine! Or they'd never drop off like this, one after another."
"It's not much more than a week ago, sir, that I met George Massey in Whitborough, and was talking to him. To all appearance he was as healthy and likely to live as I am."
"What took him off?"
"Dale says it was nothing more than a neglected cold."
"I don't like it; Dick, I don't like it," reiterated Mr. North, "Bessy may be the next to go; or Rane."
"I hope not, father."
"Well--I've had it in my head for ever so long that that tontine is an unlucky one; I think it is going to be so to the end. We shall see. Look here, Dick."
He pointed to some of the papers before him; used cheques apparently; pushing them towards his son.
"They sent me word at the bank that my account was overdrawn. I knew it could not be, and asked for my cheques. Dick, here are four or five that I never drew."