“You really mustn’t, Mr. Prentidd. It is too much.”
The inventor turned to him. His look was that of a man who turns a large morsel in his mouth.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a slow laugh. “There is this delicacy to old liars. Come give me my check—and I will go.”
“Your check——” Mr. Eben repeated.
“Yes, now—the check for the difference which your father’s lie cost me three years ago. I have seen the English books——”
Now young Mr. Jabez Lot came forward:
“Of course, if there has been error or any breach of contract—of course, you see a check off hand such as you ask is out of the question——”
The elder Mr. Wetherbee sank back to his desk; and now the dreamer, Mr. Nathan Lot, appeared with a frightened word of amelioration. Mr. Eben stood by the caller to the last moment. The latter was not at his best in this period—his threats and anger amounted to the usual result. Lot & Company refused to deal further, referring him to its attorney. The strangest part of it all was the gathering of three around Mr. Seth Wetherbee’s desk—Mr. Jabez and his father with Mr. Eben. Yet the concern of the Lots, father and son, had nothing to do with dangerous exhaustion of the vice-president.
“We have beaten him,” the dreamer said softly.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson will do the rest,” said Mr. Jabez. Mr. Jackson was the attorney.