"I hope," she said, "those naughty children have been making you
comfortable. That nice lawyer of yours came yesterday. He seemed quite
satisfied."
Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered:
"I never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. I don't know what it means."
Mrs. Larne smiled. "My dear boy, it's all right. You needn't be so
squeamish. I want it to be quite on a business footing."
Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: "It's not going to be on
any footing!" Bob Pillin mumbled: "I must go; I'm late."
"And when will you be able---?"
"Oh! I'll--I'll send--I'll write. Good-bye!" And suddenly he found that
Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat. The scent of violets and
fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'I believe
she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible. I can't leave
my coat in her hands! What shall I do?'
Mrs. Larne was murmuring:
"It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today"; and her hand
slid over his chest. "Oh! You have brought your cheque-book--what a nice
boy!"
Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau,
wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned.
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