"Consider for a moment. You are now a member of Parliament; the unquestioned owner of a fine estate; the husband of a lady of very high rank—the last direct representative of one of the proudest and most ancient of the noble families of Great Britain; you yourself are next but one in succession to almost the oldest barony in the kingdom; in fact, in all human probability, you are the next Lord Drelincourt; and all this through ME." He paused.
"Well—excuse me, Mr. Gammon—but I hear;—though—ahem! you're (meaning no offence)—I can't for the life and soul of me tell what the devil it is you're driving at"—said Titmouse, twisting his finger into his hair, and gazing at Gammon with intense anxiety. For some moments Mr. Gammon remained looking very solemnly and in silence at Titmouse; and then proceeded.
"Yet you are really no more entitled to be what you seem—what you are thought—or to possess what you at present possess—than—the little wretch that last swept your chimneys here!"
The hookah dropped out of Titmouse's hand upon the floor, and he made no effort to pick it up, but sat staring at Gammon, with cheeks almost as white as his shirt-collar, and in blank dismay.
"I perceive you are agitated, Mr. Titmouse," said Gammon, kindly.
"By Jove—I should think so!" replied Titmouse, faintly; but he tried to assume an incredulous smile—in vain, however; and to such a pitch had his agitation reached, that he rose, opened a cabinet near him, and taking out from it a brandy-flask and a wine-glass, poured it out full, and drank it off. "You a'n't joking, Mr. Gammon, eh?" Again he attempted a sickly smile.
"God forbid, Mr. Titmouse!"
"Well—but," faltered Titmouse, "why a'n't I entitled to it all? Hasn't the law given it to me? And can't the law do as it likes?"
"No one on earth knows the what and the why of this matter but myself; and, if you choose, no one ever shall; nay, I will take care, if you come this morning to my terms, to deprive even myself of all means of proving what I can now prove, at any moment I choose"——
"Lord, Mr. Gammon!" ejaculated Titmouse, passing his hand hastily over his damp forehead—his agitation visibly increasing. "What's to be the figure?" he faltered presently, and looked as if he dreaded to hear the answer.