“No,” said Jeffreys, patting the dog’s head and looking very much the reverse of comfortable.
“They say the front of the minster is beginning to crumble at places,” said Mr Halgrove, looking up at the noble pile before them; “I hope it’s not true. Are you much here?”
“No. I live in another part of the town.”
“Very odd my meeting you,” said Mr Halgrove. “I was thinking of you only to-day. I had a letter from Mr Frampton.”
“Indeed, sir—about Forrester?”
“About—oh, your little victim? Oddly enough, it was not. It was to remind me that your last half-term’s fees were not paid. Don’t you think it would be judicious to clear up this little score? Looks bad, you know—to run away with score against you.”
Jeffrey’s face turned pale. He had at least supposed that up to the time of his expulsion from his guardian’s house Mr Halgrove would have considered himself responsible for his maintenance.
“I never dreamt,” he faltered. “How much is it?”
“Quite a little sum, isn’t it? Come, you were last at school. Too bad to pose me with compound division at my time of life. Half a term at £40 a year?”
“Seven pounds!” gasped Jeffreys.