"Is that all?" said Mr. Andrews.
"All! Why, what did you expect?"
"Two or three thousand pounds to set me afloat again. I know of a safe speculation, that with, say three thousand pounds capital, would realize a handsome fortune in no time."
Mr. Jesse Andrews, I may observe, was one of that numerous class of persons who are always on the threshold of realizing millions—the only and constant obstacle being the want of a sufficient "capital."
I condoled with him upon his disappointment; but as words, however civil, avail little in the way of "capital," Mr. Jesse Andrews, having pocketed the first half-yearly installment of the annuity, made his exit in by no means a gracious or grateful frame of mind.
Two other half-yearly payments were duly paid him. When he handed me the receipt on the last occasion, he said, in a sort of off-hand, careless way, "I suppose, if Archy were to die, these payments would cease?"
"Perhaps not," I replied unthinkingly. "At all events, not, I should say, till you and your wife were in some way provided for. But your son is not ill?" I added.
"No, no; not at present," replied Andrews, coloring, and with a confusion of manner which surprised me not a little. It flashed across my mind that the boy was dead, and that Andrews, in order not to risk the withdrawal or suspension of the annuity, had concealed the fact from us.
"Let me see," I resumed, "we have your present address—Norton
Folgate, I think?"
"Yes, certainly you have."