“I am not a betting man,” said Layton.
“Oh, indeed! You have not bet upon Cannonbar, I suppose? You never put into a sweepstakes in your life?—you are not in one now, are you?”
Layton could only open his mouth in astonishment. He thought nothing less than that the spirits—then in the height of fashion—must have been at work. He was really no betting man; had never been inclined that way: but latterly, to oblige some friend who bothered him over it, he had gone into a sweepstakes, and drawn the renowned horse, Cannonbar. And had followed it up by betting a pound upon him.
“You see, Mr. Layton, your pursuits are not quite so inexpensively simple as you would wish to make them appear. These things happen to have come to my knowledge, and I have thought it my duty to mention them to Mr. Godolphin.”
Layton flew into a passion. Partly in soreness of feeling at finding he had been so closely looked after; partly in anger that dishonesty could be associated with him; and chiefly at hearing that he had been obnoxiously reported, to Mr. Godolphin. “Have you told him,” he foamed, “that you suspect me of robbing the strong-room?”
“Some one has robbed it,” was Mr. Hurde’s rejoinder. “And has no doubt made money of the deeds he stole!”
“I ask if you have told Mr. Godolphin that you cast this suspicion to me?” reiterated Layton, stamping his foot.
“What if I have? Appearances, in my opinion, would warrant my casting it to you.”
“Then you had better cast it to Mr. George Godolphin. There!”
But that they were completely absorbed in the dispute, their voices raised—at least, Layton’s—they might have seen Mr. Godolphin close to them. In passing through the Bank from his carriage to his private room—for, in the untoward state of affairs, touching the loss, he had come betimes—he was attracted by the angry sounds, and turned towards them.