“I had a telegram from my poor boy last night,” he announced in his slow, pedantic way. “I could not come round last night. I have been suffering again lately from my bronchial tubes. My doctor tells me the night air in winter is dangerous for me. I was a prisoner.”
“Your health is valuable to you, no doubt,” said Sylvester, sarcastically.
“I live for my son,” replied Usher, sitting down again in the armchair. “If I ran risks now and contracted illness, who would stand by my son in his hour of need? Prudence has been the guiding principle of my life. I have profited by it.”
He wagged his head and looked into the fire. Sylvester turned one of the straight-backed chairs and sat down, his elbow on the table.
“Perhaps you will state your business, Mr. Usher,” he said. “My time, like your health, is valuable.”
“All in good time,” replied Usher; “nothing good comes of hurrying. I never hurry.” He rubbed his palms together meditatively, like some colossal and flabby fly. Then he continued deliberately: “I learn from Roderick that he has been arrested for forging your father's name to a cheque.”
“For £3,000,” said Sylvester.
“Yes. It is a great sum of money. But your father gave it to him as a wedding present. Your father is a generous man.”
“Your son confessed to me that he forged it.”
“Well, perhaps he did,” assented Usher. “Perhaps he did.”