Same way, one morning I
turn up at his grand homestead here--and you know what! It was a check
for three figures. I don't mind telling you. It ought to have been four.
But why do you suppose he made it even three? Not for charity, you bet
your boots! I leave it to you to guess what for."
The riddle was perhaps more easily solvable by an inveterate novelist
than by the average member of the community. It was of a kind which
Langholm had been concocting for many years.
"I suppose there is some secret," said he, taking a fresh grip of his
stick, in sudden loathing of the living type which he had only imagined
hitherto.
"Ah! You've hit it," purred the wretch.
"It is evident enough, and always has been, for that matter," said
Langholm, coldly. "And so you know what his secret is!"
"I do, mister."
"And did Mr. Minchin?"
"He did."
"You would tell him, of course?"
The sort of scorn was too delicate for John William Abel, yet even he
seemed to realize that an admission must be accompanied by some form of
excuse.
"I did tell him," he said, "for I felt I owed it to him. He was a good
friend to me, was Mr. Minchin; and neither of us was getting enough for
all we did.
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