Part 32 (1/2)

This encouraging reply cost him an effort. He had stooped to the unworthy practice of perverting what he had said and done on a former occasion, to serve a present interest. Remind himself as he might of the end which, in the interests of Iris, did really appear to justify the means, he still sank to a place in his own estimation which he was honestly ashamed to occupy.

Under other circ.u.mstances his hesitation, slight as it was, might have excited suspicion. As things were, Mr. Vimpany could only discover golden possibilities that dazzled his eyes. ”I wonder whether you're in the humour,” he said, ”to be kindly disposed towards me now?”

It was needless to be careful of the feelings of such man as this.

”Suppose you had the money you want in your pocket,” Hugh suggested, ”what would you do with it?”

”Go back to London, to be sure, and publish the first number of that work of mine I told you of.”

”And leave your friend, Lord Harry?”

”What good is my friend to me? He's nearly as poor as I am--he sent for me to advise him--I put him up to a way of filling both our pockets, and he wouldn't hear of it. What sort of a friend do you call that?”

Pay him and get rid of him. There was the course of proceeding suggested by the private counsellor in Mountjoy's bosom.

”Have you got the publisher's estimate of expenses?” he asked.

The doctor instantly produced the doc.u.ment.

To a rich man the sum required was, after all, trifling enough.

Mountjoy sat down at the writing-table. As he took up a pen, Mr.

Vimpany's protuberant eyes looked as if they would fly out of his head.

”If I lend you the money--” Hugh began.

”Yes? Yes?” cried the doctor.

”I do so on condition that n.o.body is to know of the loan but ourselves.”

”Oh, sir, on my sacred word of honour--” An order on Mountjoy's bankers in Paris for the necessary amount, with something added for travelling expenses, checked Mr. Vimpany in full career of protestation. He tried to begin again: ”My friend! my benefactor--”

He was stopped once more. His friend and benefactor pointed to the clock.

”If you want the money to-day, you have just time to get to Paris before the bank closes.”

Mr. Vimpany did want the money--always wanted the money; his grat.i.tude burst out for the third time: ”G.o.d bless you!”

The object of that highly original form of benediction pointed through the window in the direction of the railway station. Mr. Vimpany struggled no longer to express his feelings--he had made his last sacrifice to appearances--he caught the train.

The door of the room had been left open. A voice outside said: ”Has he gone?”

”Come in, f.a.n.n.y,” said Mountjoy. ”He will return to London either to-night or to-morrow morning.”

The strange maid put her head in at the door. ”I'll be at the terminus,” she said, ”and make sure of him.”

Her head suddenly disappeared, before it was possible to speak to her again. ”Was there some other person outside? The other person entered the room; it was Lord Harry. He spoke without his customary smile.

”I want a word with you, Mr. Mountjoy.”

”About what, my lord?”