“And what’s the next job to be, then?” asked Durfy.
“The most particular of all,” replied the sporting man. “I want a letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There’s a fifty pounds turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out. Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you’ll get a fiver for it. As soon as that’s done, Medlock, and the young dandies’ bills have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we’re wanted.”
“You’re right there!” said Mr Medlock, laughing. “I’ll go down and look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he’ll manage the rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand. Have some more, Durfy.”
Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a friendly visit.
“I’ve been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent.”
A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald’s cheeks, such as would have moved to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock’s.
“No one has called, I suppose?”
“No, sir. There’s been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry, of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet been delivered.”
Mr Medlock smiled.
“These good men are so impatient,” said he; “they imagine their order is the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?”