"Nonsense, man," laughed the doctor scornfully. "You got out of the hands of the Jews, and ever since that day you haven't had five minutes' worry over your finances. I promised you I would provide you with an ample income, and——"
"And you've done so, Weirmarsh," cried the old general; "an income far greater than I expected. Yet what do I deserve?"
"My dear General," said the doctor quite calmly, "you're not yourself to-day; suffering from a slight attack of remorse, eh? It's a bad complaint; I've had it, and I know. But it's like the measles—you're very nearly certain to contract it once in a lifetime."
"Have you no pity for me?" snarled Sir Hugh, glaring at the narrow-eyed man seated before him. "Don't you realise that by this last demand of yours you've driven me into a corner?"
Weirmarsh's brows contracted slightly, and he shot an evil glance at the man before him—the man who was his victim. "But you must do it. You still want money—and lots of it, don't you?" he said in a low, decisive voice.
"I refuse, I tell you!" cried Sir Hugh angrily.
"Hush! Someone may overhear," the doctor said. "Is Enid at home?"
"Yes."
"I saw her last night, as you wished. She is not well. Her nerves are still in an extremely weak state," Weirmarsh said, in order to change the topic of conversation. "I think you should send her abroad out of the way—to the South somewhere."
"So she told me. I shall try and get Mrs. Caldwell to take her to Sicily—if you consider the air would be beneficial."