“By the way,” said Mr Halgrove, as he reached the door, “by the way, John—”
Jeffreys stopped with his hand on the latch.
“I was going to say,” said the guardian, rising and looking for his cigar-case, “that the little sum of money which was left by your father, and invested for your benefit, has very unfortunately taken to itself wings, owing to the failure of the undertaking in which it happened to be invested. I have the papers here, and should like to show them to you, if you can spare me five minutes.”
Jeffreys knew nothing about money. Hitherto his school fees had been paid, and a small regular allowance for pocket-money had been sent him quarterly by his guardian. Now his guardian’s announcement conveyed little meaning to him beyond the fact that he had no money to count upon. He never expected he would have; so he was not disappointed.
“I don’t care to see the papers,” he said.
“You are a philosopher, my friend,” said his guardian. “But I have sufficient interest in you, despite your financial difficulties, to believe you might find this five-pound note of service on your travels.”
“No, thank you,” said Jeffreys, putting his hand behind his back.
“Don’t mention it,” said his guardian, returning it to his pocket. “There is, when I come to think of it,” added he, “a sovereign which really belongs to you. It is the balance of your last quarter’s allowance, which I had been about to send to you this week. I would advise you to take it.”
“Is it really mine?”
“Pray come and look over the accounts. I should like to satisfy you.”