He had been diligently at work upon the document for some hours, now and then refreshing himself from a bottle on the table.
The chirography was not his own.
It looked for all the world like the writing of an old person taken with the palsy, and the man at work smiled every now and then as he looked at his job.
“It’s good for the two hundred thousand,” said he, half aloud. “That was a cute bargain Claude made with the old nabob. I am to vanish, of course; but I’ll see that I don’t lose any of my share. I am to be killed off, and this paper is to fall into Lamont’s hands, to be consigned of course to the flames. He’ll probably consider it cheap at two hundred thousand, but I’ll take care that Claude doesn’t really carry out the bargain.”
The day had deepened into night, and still George Richmond worked.
He did not stop till the nearest clock struck eight, and then he finished his self-imposed task.
Once more, like a good accountant, he glanced over his pages and stuffed them into an old envelope prepared for the occasion.
“That settles it,” he remarked. “Now for the proof of my demise, ha, ha!”
He thrust the whole into his pocket and buttoned his coat over it.
After this he turned the gas low and filled the room with shadows, then pulled his soft hat over his forehead and left the house.