"Nothing. It has accomplished great work in the past."
"Do you know anything of this?"
Jesson's manner became truculent. He pulled some papers from his pocket, and selecting a plain correspondence card, handed it to Sheard.
The card bore no address, being headed simply: "Final appeal." It read:
"Your cheque toward the re-opening of the Out-Patient's Wing of Sladen Hospital has not been forwarded."
Sheard failed to recognise the writing, and handed the card back, shaking his head.
"Oh!" said Jesson suspiciously; "because I've had three of these anonymous applications—and they don't come from the hospital authorities."
"Why not comply?" asked Sheard. "Let me announce in the Gleaner that you have generously subscribed ten thousand pounds."
"What!" rapped Sir Leopold. "Do you take me for a fool?" He glared angrily. "Before we go any farther, sir—is this touting business the real object of your visit?"
The pressman flushed. His conduct, he knew well, was irreconcilable with good form; but Jesson's tone had become grossly offensive. Something about the man repelled Sheard's naturally generous instincts, and no shade of compunction remained. A score of times, during the past quarter of an hour, he had all but determined to throw up this unsavoury affair and to let Séverac Bablon do with him as he would. Now, he stifled all scruples and was glad that the task had been required of him. He would shirk no more, but would go through with the part allotted him in this strange comedy, lead him where it might.