The afternoon was drawing to an end in Essex Street, and Charles was in his own private room, all his faculties given to a deed, when Lord Level was shown in. It was for Charles he asked, not for Mr. Brightman.
"What an awful business this is!" began his lordship, when greetings had passed.
Charles lifted his hands in dismay. No need to ask to whom the remark applied: or to mention poor Tom Heriot by name.
"Could nothing be done, Mr. Strange?" demanded the peer in his coldest and haughtiest tones. "Were there no means that could have been taken to avert exposure?"
"Yes, I think there might have been, but for Tom's own careless folly: and that's the most galling part of it," returned Charles. "Had he only made a confidant of me beforehand, we should have had a try for it. If I could not have found the money myself, Mr. Brightman would have done so."
"You need only have applied to me," said Lord Level. "I should not have cared how much I paid—to prevent exposure."
"But in his carelessness, you see, he never applied to anyone; he allowed the blow to fall upon him, and then it was too late——"
"Was he a fool?" interjected Lord Level.
"There is this excuse for his not speaking: he did not know that things were so bad, or that the people would proceed to extremities."
The peer drew in his haughty lips. "Did he tell you that pretty fable?"