“Look here,” cried I aghast, “for mercy’s sake, don’t show him up, Marple! It’s as likely as not he’s to be expelled as it is; this would finish him up.”
“If he’s likely to be expelled, all the more reason I should get my money before he goes.”
“How much is it?” I gasped.
“A matter of two pounds,” said the tradesman.
“Look here,” said I, “I’ll promise you shall be paid. Wait till the last day of the term, do, Marple.”
Mr Marple stared at me. The security I fear was not good enough for him. On the other hand, he probably knew that it would not be good for trade if he were to show up a “Low Heathen.”
He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained Tempest’s bill for sundry stationery, magazines, books, postage stamps, and so on; headed “Fourth and final application.” The envelope itself was addressed, “Dr England, with W. Marple’s respectful compliments.”
The bell rang just then, and I was so anxious to get Marple off the scene that I wildly promised anything to be rid of him, and was finally left, just in time, to meet Tempest unconsciously strolling across the quadrangle on his way to keep his appointment with the doctor.