“I may, therefore, alter my mind in so far as paying Wilton a visit, and consulting with him upon it,” observed Gomer; “but, really, I don’t think anything will come of it in the face of the arrangement now being effected,” he continued.
“Are the dockyments signed by both parties?” inquired Chewkle, rather eagerly.
“No, they are not yet signed,” replied Gomer “but a part of the provisions have been carried out, for I have advanced Grahame a large sum of money.”
“I knows it; on the understanding that if the agreement ain’t completed, he is to return all the money advanced.”
“Exactly.”
“He can’t do it,” returned Chewkle, emphatically. “You came down upon him with that proposal, like a hangel from the sky, and saved him from crunching up like a bit o’ burnt wood—you saved him from wuss—much wuss—but that’s neither here nor there. How-somever, he won’t let a chance slip to get the whole of the estate into his claws. I’ll try a leetle more o’ this brandy, if you please; it’s some o’ the right sort, this is,” subjoined Chewkle, labouring under a delirious delusion on that point.
His glass was replenished, and the interval seemed to give Nathan Gomer time to cogitate, although, actually, his plan had been matured before he sought Chewkle at the railway station.
At length he said—
“I will see Wilton, but I cannot make the journey to Harleydale until three weeks have elapsed.”
“Three weeks,” echoed Chewkle; “say three years. A-hem! Wilton may be dead before three weeks is over.”