The baronet’s chair was apart near the window. On a table in the middle of the room were pens and ink, together with a formidable looking document.
Mr. Page, having shaken hands with Alec, greeted the two Italians in his most urbane manner, and then motioned them to a couple of chairs on the opposite side of the table. Next he handed the paper to Alec, who sat down on the third chair while he glanced over its various clauses, the lawyer standing at his elbow while he did so. That done, without a moment’s hesitation, Alec dipped a pen in the ink and wrote his name in full at the foot in bold flowing characters. He then made way for the witnesses, standing aside with folded arms. At Mr. Page’s invitation, Rispani moved to the chair vacated by Alec and proceeded to scrawl his signature on the line indicated by the lawyer’s finger. A like process was then gone through by the second Italian. Neither of them had the least notion as to the contents of the document to which they had appended their signatures. Mr. Page had taken care of that. A sheet of blotting-paper which he had applied to Alec’s signature was left so as to cover three-fourths of the paper, while the sleeve of his coat, as he indicated the spot where each witness was to write his name, effectually hid the last of the three words, “John Alexander Clare.”
He had not lost sight of the fact that in Catanzaro Alec was known only as the Signor Alessandro.
As soon as the Italians were gone Mr. Page sat down, and from the breast pocket of his coat produced a bulky packet of bank notes of various denominations, which, with the help of a moistened forefinger, he proceeded to count with methodical deliberation.
Having satisfied himself on a point about which he had felt perfectly sure beforehand, he pushed the notes across the table to Alec.
“There, sir,” he said; “if you will be at the trouble of counting them, you will find that they amount in the aggregate to exactly six thousand pounds.”
“I will take your word for that, Mr. Page,” replied Alec, with a bitter smile as he crumpled up the notes and thrust them into his pocket.
By this a carriage, previously ordered, was at the door. The two gentlemen had arranged to post as far as Reggio. Sir Gilbert, who despite his husk of frigidity, was far from comfortable in his mind, and was especially desirous of getting away at the earliest possible moment, had already drawn on his gloves and taken possession of his dust-coat and umbrella. He now extended his rigid fingers to his son, whose hand instinctively closed over them, but without any consciousness of the slightest pressure in return.
“Goodbye,” said the baronet. “You have my best wishes for your prosperity in the future. At any time it will gratify me to hear that you are doing well. Now, Mr. Page, if you are ready.”
With that the fingers were withdrawn, and turning on his heel, he stalked solemnly out, leaving his son, who had said no word in reply, standing in the middle of the room.