"She—was—my niece?" he inquired.
"Well, bless my soul!" pondered Mr. Rowlandson, as though the thought struck him for the first time. "They may have been the same valentines you bought at that sale—whose was it?—so many years ago. Of course, they may have been. I have a few of them with me—" He reached for the parcel with the loosened string.
"You know they are the same," said Sir Peter savagely. "Let this farce end at once. You should be ashamed, Rowlandson, to seek your shabby profit in the helplessness of a misguided child, ignorant of the world—and its hard, rough usage. I am surprised that you would do it—but that you should tell of it—even boast of it, amazes me. However—trade blunts a certain delicacy of feeling that—"
Sir Peter gave the bookseller a sharp look. Then he added,—
"I see your purpose in coming here now. You calculated shrewdly. Well—you were right. I will pay you the sum advanced to her."
Whatever emotion Mr. Rowlandson experienced he concealed.
Sir Peter opened his check-book again, and dipped his pen.
"How much did you say?" he asked.
"The amount advanced was fifty pounds," said Mr. Rowlandson mildly.
"Fifty pounds!" exclaimed Sir Peter.