The old man put out a deprecatory hand and looked at his son out of expressionless blue eyes.
“I only point the way, my son. These reverses on the Stock Exchange have brought me near to penury. I look forward to your marriage, so that you can provide for your poor old father.”
“You could easily have lent me the money,” muttered Roderick.
“I have shown you how to obtain it. Do not fear Matthew Lanyon, my son. We are not friends, and I will meet him no longer. But he is a snake with the fangs drawn; and I have drawn them. I have power over men. It is my way.”
There was a touch of savage exultation in the old man's tone which was new to Roderick.
“You are quite sure about it?” he asked quickly.
“He would not dare to hurt a hair of my dear boy's head.”
“What the devil is this hold you have got over him?”
“I'll leave that to you as your inheritance, my son.”
Roderick watched the old, ignoble figure with a feeling of horrible repulsion. He turned, bidding him an abrupt farewell, and walked fast through the garden and out at the gate on to the road that led to the station. At the refreshment bar he drank a shilling's worth of brandy.