A GOLDEN ARGOSY.
A NOVELETTE.
CHAPTER XIII.
With the exception of her eyes and her teeth, Miss Wakefield was an ordinary, nay, almost a benevolent, woman. About sixty years of age, with a figure perfectly straight and supple, and wearing her own hair, which was purple black, she might have passed for forty, save for the innumerable lines and wrinkles on her face. Her eyes were full of a furtive evil light, and never failed to cast a baleful influence over the spectator; her teeth were large and white, but gapped here and there in the front like a saw. Mr Slimm mentally compared her with some choice assortments of womankind he had encountered in the mines and kindred places, and they did not suffer in the comparison.
‘Your business?’ she said coldly.
‘Madam, you will do me the favour to sit down,’ he replied. ‘What I have to say will take a considerable time.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, with the same frigid air; ‘I prefer to stand.’ Some subtle instinct told her this visit boded no good, and she knew in dealing with an adversary what an advantage a standing position gives one.
By way of answer, Mr Slimm continued standing also.
‘Madam,’ he commenced, ‘what I have to say to you concerns the affairs of the late Mr Morton of Eastwood. He was an old friend of mine. Very recently, I heard of his death. I am determined to have justice done.’
Was it fancy, or did these thin feline lips grow white? He could have sworn he saw them quiver. Anyway, fancy or not, if the worst came to the worst, he had a great card to play.