“He possesses great influence over individuals,” continued Flora, “and, seemingly, over circumstances. I have great faith in anything he may predict, and—and I really should like to know who he is.”
The object of their speculations was at this moment alone with Wilton; on entering the library, he strode rather than walked up to where Wilton was seated, still poring over the abstract. He threw himself into a seat with a sudden violence which made Wilton start, then to elevate his eyebrows, then to frown.
This person—this Mr. Gomer, was assuming a familiarity, which he now thought it would be proper to check. He screwed up his eyes and affected a distant manner.
“You have something to communicate to me, Gomer, I apprehend, by your speedy return,” he observed, with his eyes fixed upon the paper he held in his hand.
“I have, Wilton,” he said curtly; “a very good time too, I think, to say it, now that you are all but installed owner of your large property.”
Mr. Wilton coldly inclined his head.
“Proceed!” he exclaimed.
Nathan made a grimace.
“Hem!” he coughed, “the gap is wide which separates the Queen’s Bench from Eglinton Park, Mr. Wilton.”
Mr. Wilton’s cheek flushed at the suggestion. He coughed too.