The fire had burnt low in the library, for the night
was wet and warm. It was now little more than
a grey shell, and looked desolate. Trayton Burleigh,
still hot, rose from his armchair, and turning out
one of the gas-jets, took a cigar from a box on a
side-table and resumed his seat again.
The apartment, which was on the third floor at the
back of the house, was a combination of library, study,
and smoke-room, and was the daily despair of the old
housekeeper who, with the assistance of one servant,
managed the house. It was a bachelor establishment,
and had been left to Trayton Burleigh and James Fletcher
by a distant connection of both men some ten years
before.
Trayton Burleigh sat back in his chair watching the
smoke of his cigar through half-closed eyes.
Occasionally he opened them a little wider and glanced
round the comfortable, well-furnished room, or stared
with a cold gleam of hatred at Fletcher as he sat
sucking stolidly at his brier pipe. It was a
comfortable room and a valuable house, half of which
belonged to Trayton Burleigh; and yet he was to leave
it in the morning and become a rogue and a wanderer
over the face of the earth. James Fletcher had
said so. James Fletcher, with the pipe still
between his teeth and speaking from one corner of
his mouth only, had pronounced his sentence.
“It hasn’t occurred to you, I suppose,”
said Burleigh, speaking suddenly, “that I might
refuse your terms.”
“No,” said Fletcher, simply.
Burleigh took a great mouthful of smoke and let it
roll slowly out.
“I am to go out and leave you in possession?”
he continued. “You will stay here sole
proprietor of the house; you will stay at the office
sole owner and representative of the firm? You
are a good hand at a deal, James Fletcher.”
“I am an honest man,” said Fletcher, “and
to raise sufficient money to make your defalcations
good will not by any means leave me the gainer, as
you very well know.”
“There is no necessity to borrow,” began
Burleigh, eagerly. “We can pay the interest
easily, and in course of time make the principal good
without a soul being the wiser.”
“That you suggested before,” said Fletcher,
“and my answer is the same. I will be no
man’s confederate in dishonesty; I will raise
every penny at all costs, and save the name of the
firm—and yours with it—but I
will never have you darken the office again, or sit
in this house after to-night.”
“You won’t,” cried Burleigh, starting
up in a frenzy of rage.
“I won’t,” said Fletcher.
“You can choose the alternative: disgrace
and penal servitude. Don’t stand over
me; you won’t frighten me, I can assure you.
Sit down.”
“You have arranged so many things in your kindness,”
said Burleigh, slowly, resuming his seat again, “have
you arranged how I am to live?”
