"Do you take me for a millionaire?" cried Nevill. "It's all right about the agreement, but a thousand pounds is utterly beyond my means. Say two hundred."
Mr. Timmins shook his head, and glanced significantly about the room.
"I can't take a shilling less," he firmly replied. "I know a good thing when I have it, sir."
Nevill temporized. He argued and entreated, but without avail. He had an inflexible customer to deal with, who would not be put off with anything but his pound of flesh. A decision that night was impossible, and arrangements were made for another meeting within a few days. Then Mr. Timmins filled his pocket with cigars and took his leave.
Nevill let him out into Jermyn street, locked the door, and returned to his sitting-room. His face was distorted with evil passions, and he spilled the brandy on the table as he poured some into a glass.
"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "He again! Is he destined to blast my life and ruin my prospects?"
The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.
"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the awakening of Venus. You wouldn't be undressed, so we had to tuck you away as you were—some chaps helped to bring you here."
"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."