“So I understand. But it will take time and the bank overdrafts are urgent. Mason’s Bank declare that if their debt is not paid—or freshly secured—within a month from now, they will certainly take proceedings. I must remind you they have been exceedingly forbearing.”
“And the amount?” Falloden consulted his papers.
“Forty thousand. The securities on which Sir Arthur obtained it are now not worth more than eight.”
The lawyer paused a moment, looked at his companion, and at last said—
“There are, of course, your own expectations from Lord Dagnall. I do not know whether you and your father have considered them. But I imagine it would be possible to raise money on them.”
Falloden laughed. The sound was a mixture of irritation and contempt.
“Uncommonly little! The fact is my uncle—at seventy-two—is philandering with a lady-housekeeper he set up a year ago. She seems to be bent on netting him, and my father thinks she’ll do it. If she does, my uncle will probably find himself with an heir of his own. Anyway the value of my prospects is enormously less than it was. All the neighbours are perfectly aware of what is going on. Oh, I suppose he’ll leave me something—enough to keep me out of the workhouse. But there’s nothing to be got out of it now.”
There was another silence. Falloden pondered the figures before him.
“There are always the pictures,” he said at last, looking up.
The lawyer’s face lightened.