“Are you quite sure that the man I pointed out to you, at the lecture, is the same man who went by the name of Morgan, and had his letters addressed to the public-house?”
“Quite sure. I’d swear to him anywhere—only by his eyes.”
“And have you never yet asked him to pay the debt?”
“How could I ask him, when I never knew what his name was till you told me to-night?”
“What amount of money does he owe you?”
Whether Mrs. Sowler had her mind prophetically fixed on a fourth glass of grog, or whether she thought it time to begin asking questions on her own account, is not easy to say. Whatever her motive might be, she slyly shook her head, and winked at Jervy. “The money’s my business,” she remarked. “You tell me where he lives—and I’ll make him pay me.”
Jervy was equal to the occasion. “You won’t do anything of the sort,” he said.
Mrs. Sowler laughed defiantly. “So you think, my fine fellow!”
“I don’t think at all, old lady—I’m certain. In the first place, Farnaby don’t owe you the debt by law, after seven years. In the second place, just look at yourself in the glass there. Do you think the servants will let you in, when you knock at Farnaby’s door? You want a clever fellow to help you—or you’ll never recover that debt.”
Mrs. Sowler was accessible to reason (even half-way through her third glass of grog), when reason was presented to her in convincing terms. She came to the point at once. “How much do you want?” she asked.