“It was worth a hundred thousand,” said Joseph bitterly, “when it was in my hands. But then there came a Scotsman—it is supposed he had a certain talent—it was entirely directed to book-keeping—no accountant in London could understand a word of any of his books; and then there was Morris, who is perfectly incompetent. And now it is worth very little. Morris tried to sell it last year; and Pogram and Jarris offered only four thousand.”
“I shall turn my attention to leather,” said Michael with decision.
“You?” asked Joseph. “I advise you not. There is nothing in the whole field of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations of the leather market. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid.”
“And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money?” asked the lawyer.
“Paid it into a bank and drew twenty pounds,” answered Mr. Finsbury promptly. “Why?”
“Very well,” said Michael. “To-morrow I shall send down a clerk with a cheque for a hundred, and he’ll draw out the original sum and return it to the Anglo-Patagonian, with some sort of explanation which I will try to invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can’t touch a penny of it without forgery, it will do no harm to my little scheme.”
“But what am I to do?” asked Joseph; “I cannot live upon nothing.”
“Don’t you hear?” returned Michael. “I send you a cheque for a hundred; which leaves you eighty to go along upon; and when that’s done, apply to me again.”
“I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same,” said Joseph, biting at his white moustache. “I would rather live on my own money, since I have it.”
Michael grasped his arm. “Will nothing make you believe,” he cried, “that I am trying to save you from Dartmoor?”