ad
definitely set--when that happens, of course, there is no more glamour,
and the time has come to get your money. Weakness in oneself and others
is despicable! Besides, he had food for thought, and descending the
stairs he chewed it: He smelt a rat--creatures for which both by nature
and profession he had a nose. Through Bob Pillin, on whom he sometimes
dwelt in connection with his younger daughter, he knew that old Pillin
and old Heythorp had been friends for thirty years and more. That, to an
astute mind, suggested something behind this sale. The thought had
already occurred to him when he read his copy of the report. A
commission would be a breach of trust, of course, but there were ways of
doing things; the old chap was devilish hard pressed, and human nature
was human nature! His lawyerish mind habitually put two and two
together. The old fellow had deliberately appointed to meet his
creditors again just after the general meeting which would decide the
purchase--had said he might do something for them then. Had that no
significance?

In these circumstances Charles Ventnor had come to the meeting with eyes
wide open and mouth tight closed. And he had watched. It was certainly
remarkable that such an old and feeble man, with no neck at all, who
looked indeed as if he might go off with apoplexy any moment, should
actually say that he "stood or fell" by this purchase, knowing that if he
fell he would be a beggar. Why should the old chap be so keen on getting
it through? It would do him personally no good, unless--Exactly! He had
left the meeting, therefore, secretly confident that old Heythorp had got
something out of this transaction which would enable him to make a
substantial proposal to his creditors. So that when the old man had
declared that he was going to make none, something had turned sour in his
heart, and he had said to himself: "All right, you old rascal! You don't
know C. V." The cavalier manner of that beggarly old rip, the defiant
look of his deep little eyes, had put a polish on the rancour of one who
prided himself on letting no man get the better of him. All that
evening, seated on one side of the fire, while Mrs. Ventnor sat on the
other, and the younger daughter played Gounod's Serenade on the
violin--he cogitated. And now and again he smiled, but not too much. He
did not see his way as yet, but had little doubt that before long he
would. It would not be hard to knock that ch