“I have brought no charge as yet,” the Major said, with a significant look at his man.
“Thank you, sir,” whispered Morgan, very low.
“Go outside the door, and wait there, policeman, if you please.—Now, Morgan, you have played one game with me, and you have not had the best of it, my good man. No, begad, you’ve not had the best of it, though you had the best hand; and you’ve got to pay, too, now, you scoundrel.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man.
“I’ve only found out, within the last week, the game which you have been driving, you villain. Young De Boots, of the Blues, recognised you as the man who came to barracks, and did business one-third in money, one-third in eau-de-Cologne, and one-third in French prints, you confounded demure old sinner! I didn’t miss anything, or care a straw what you’d taken, you booby; but I took the shot, and it hit—hit the bull’s-eye, begad. Dammy, six, I’m an old campaigner.”
“What do you want with me, sir?”
“I’ll tell you. Your bills, I suppose, you keep about you in that dem’d great leather pocket-book, don’t you? You’ll burn Mrs. Brixham’s bill?”
“Sir, I ain’t a-goin’ to part with my property,” growled the man.
“You lent her sixty pounds five years ago. She and that poor devil of an insurance clerk, her son, have paid you fifty pounds a year ever since; and you have got a bill of sale of her furniture, and her note of hand for a hundred and fifty pounds. She told me so last night. By Jove, sir, you’ve bled that poor woman enough.”
“I won’t give it up,” said Morgan; “If I do I’m——”