2Back in the proper office of "The Island Navigation Company" old Heythorp sat smoking a cigar and smiling like a purring cat. He was dreaming a little of his triumph, sifting with his old brain, still subtle, the wheat from the chaff of the demurrers: Westgate--nothing in that--professional discontent till they silenced him with a place on the board--but not while be held the reins! That chap at the back--an ill-conditioned fellow! "Something behind!" Suspicious brute! There was something--but--hang it! they might think themselves lucky to get four ships at that price, and all due to him!
It was on the last speaker that his mind dwelt with a doubt. That fellow Ventnor, to whom he owed money--there had been something just a little queer about his tone--as much as to say, "I smell a rat."Well! one would see that at the creditors' meeting in half an hour.
"Mr. Pillin, sir."
"Show him in!"
In a fur coat which seemed to extinguish his thin form, Joe Pillin entered. It was snowing, and the cold had nipped and yellowed his meagre face between its slight grey whiskering. He said thinly:
"How are you, Sylvanus? Aren't you perished in this cold?""Warm as a toast. Sit down. Take off your coat.""Oh! I should be lost without it. You must have a fire inside you.
So-so it's gone through?"
Old Heythorp nodded; and Joe Pillin, wandering like a spirit, scrutinised the shut door. He came back to the table, and said in a low voice:
"It's a great sacrifice."
Old Heythorp smiled.
"Have you signed the deed poll?"
Producing a parchment from his pocket Joe Pillin unfolded it with caution to disclose his signature, and said:
"I don't like it--it's irrevocable."
A chuckle escaped old Heythorp.
"As death."
Joe Pillin's voice passed up into the treble clef.