Part 25 (1/2)

”I'm sure I can,” rejoined Chancey. ”The bills belong to the old cripple that lent the money; and _he_ does whatever I bid him. He trusts it all to me. He gives me the trouble, and takes the profit himself. Oh! he _does_ confide in me. I have only to say the word, and it's done. They shall be renewed or held over as often as you wish.

Indeed, I can answer for it. Dear me, it would be very hard if I could not.”

”Well, then, Mr. Chancey,” replied Ashwoode, ”I may require it, or I may not. Craven has the promise of a large sum of money, within two or three days--part of the loan he has already gotten. Will you favour me with a call on to-morrow afternoon at Morley Court. I will then have heard definitely from Craven, and can tell you whether I require time or not.”

”Very good, sir--very fair, indeed, Mr. Ashwoode. Nothing fairer,”

rejoined the lawyer. ”But don't give yourself any uneasiness. Oh, dear, on no account; for I declare to ---- I would hold them over as long as you like. Oh, dear me--indeed but I would. Well, then, I'll call out at about four o'clock.”

”Very good, Mr. Chancey,” replied Ashwoode. ”I shall expect you.

Meanwhile, good-night.” So they separated.

The young baronet reached his ancestral dwelling without adventure of any kind, and Mr. Gordon Chancey poured out the last drops of beer from the inverted can into his pewter cup, and draining it calmly, anon b.u.t.toned his waistcoat, shook the wet from his cravat, and tied it on, thrust his feet into his shoes, and flinging his c.o.c.ked hat carelessly upon his head, walked forth in deep thought into the street, whistling a concerto of his own invention.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

THE DIABOLIC WHISPER.

Gordon Chancey sauntered in his usual lazy, lounging way, with his hands in his pockets, down the street. After a listless walk of half-an-hour he found himself at the door of a handsome house, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Castle. He knocked, and was admitted by a servant in full livery.

”Is he in the same room?” inquired Chancey.

”Yes, sir,” replied the man; and without further parley, the learned counsel proceeded upstairs, and knocked at the drawing-room door, which, without waiting for any answer, he forthwith opened.

Nicholas Blarden--with two ugly black plaisters across his face, his arm in a sling, and his countenance bearing in abundance the livid marks of his late rencounter--stood with his back to the fire-place; a table, blazing with wax-lights, and stored with glittering wine-flasks and other matters, was placed at a little distance before him. As the man of law entered the room, the countenance of the invalid relaxed into an ugly grin of welcome.

”Well, Gordy, boy, how goes the game? Out with your news, old rat-catcher,” said Blarden, in high good humour.

”Dear me, dear me! but the night is mighty chill, Mr. Blarden,”

observed Chancey, filling a gla.s.s of wine to the brim, and sipping it uninvited. ”News,” he continued, letting himself drop into a chair--”news; well, there's not much stirring worth telling you.”

”Come, what _is_ it? You're not come here for nothing, old fox,”

rejoined Blarden, ”I know by the ---- twinkle in the corner of your eye.”

”Well, _he_ has been with me, just now,” drawled Chancey.

”Ashwoode?”

”Yes.”

”Well! what does he want--what does he want, eh?” asked Blarden, with intense excitement.

”He says he'll want time for the notes,” replied Chancey.

”G.o.d be thanked!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Blarden, and followed this e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n with a ferocious burst of laughter. ”We'll have him, Chancey, boy, if only we know how to play him--by ----, we'll have him, as sure as there's heat in h.e.l.l.”

”Well, maybe we will,” rejoined Chancey.