He went into his bedroom, on the same floor. When he came back, he held a piece of paper in his hand.
“There, Johnny. But it is my loan; not yours.”
It was a cheque for a hundred pounds. He had listened, after all! The surprise was so great that I am afraid my eyes were dim.
“The loan is mine, Johnny,” he repeated. “I am not going to risk your money, and prove myself a false trustee. When Todhetley can repay it, it will be to me, not to you. But now—understand: unless he gives you a solemn promise never to play with that ‘Honourable’ again, or with either of the Pells, you will not use the cheque, but return it to me.”
“Oh, Mr. Brandon, there will be no difficulty. He only wants to be quit of them.”
“Get his promise, I say. If he gives it, present this cheque at Robarts’s in Lombard Street to-morrow, and they’ll pay you the money over the counter.”
“It is made out to my order!” I said, looking at the cheque: “not to Crayton!”
“To Crayton!” retorted Mr. Brandon. “I wouldn’t let a cheque of mine, uncrossed, fall into his hands. He might add an ought or two to the figures. I drew it out for an even hundred, you see: the odd money may be wanted. You’ll have to sign your name at the back: do it at the bank. And now, do you know why I have let you have this?”
I looked at him in doubt.
“Because you have obeyed the injunctions I gave you—to bring any difficulty you might have to me. I certainly never expected it so soon, or that it would take this form. Don’t you get tumbling into another. Let people take care of themselves. There: put it into your breast-pocket, and be off.”