The next was:—
"Egerton ruined? What am I, then?"
And the third was:—
"And that fair remnant of the old Leslie property! £20,000 down—how to get the sum? Why should Levy have spoken, to me of this?"
And lastly, the soliloquy rounded back:—
"The man's motives! His motives?"
Meanwhile, the baron, threw himself into his chariot—the most comfortable, easy chariot, you can possibly conceive—single man's chariot—perfect taste—no married man ever has such a chariot; and in a few minutes he was at ——'s hotel, and in the presence of Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera.
"Mon cher," said the baron in very good French, and in a tone of the most familiar equality with the descendant of the princes and heroes of grand mediæval Italy—"Mon cher, give me one of your excellent cigars. I think I have put all matters in train."
"You have found out—"
"No; not so fast yet," said the baron, lighting the cigar extended to him. "But you said that you should be perfectly contented if it only cost you £20,000 to marry off your sister (to whom that sum is legally due), and to marry yourself to the heiress."