‘Then why does he stay so late at Crutched Friars?’
‘To dabble in a little business of his own.’
‘What business is that, Walter?’
‘Well, something in the bullion line of business, to judge from appearances.’
‘Explain yourself, Walter! I am puzzled.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t; I’m puzzled too,’ said the young man. ‘This bullion business,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is a strange affair.’
Rachel clasped her hands with an impatient gesture. ‘Walter, tell me what you have seen!’
‘I’ve seen,’ said the young man reluctantly—‘I’ve seen, through a hole in the shutter, an old man at a desk, under the light of a shaded lamp, seated over handfuls of gold. The desk was Silas Monk’s, in the counting-house of Armytage and Company. But the face of the man was not the face of your grandfather; or if it was his, it was greatly changed.’
‘In what way changed, Walter?’
‘It was a face expressing dreadful greed. It was the face of a miser, Rachel—nothing less!’