The girl, standing under the dim street-lamp above the doorway, looked with wondering eyes into Walter’s face. ‘Does not all the money at the counting-house belong to the firm?’
‘So I have always thought, Rachel.’
‘Then grandfather was balancing the cash?’
‘Not the hard cash of Armytage and Company. That is taken every day, before the closing hour, to the bank.’
Looking still into the young man’s face, the girl said: ‘Then the money must be his own.’
‘He certainly seemed to eye it, Rachel, as if every sovereign belonged to him.’
The girl became pensive. ‘He must be rich,’ said she.
‘Very rich, if all those sovereigns are his.’
‘And he loves gold more than he loves his grand-daughter!’ Rachel complained, in a tone of deep disappointment, while tears started into her eyes.
Not being able to deny that there appeared some truth in the girl’s words, Walter could answer nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful. Suddenly the clocks of the old city began striking midnight.