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Updated: June 26, 2025
He would no longer be able to pose as the favorite of the great millionaire, Joseph Hine. He would sink in Sylvia's eyes. At the cost of any humiliation that downfall must be avoided. His words, however, had an immediate effect upon Mr. Jarvice, though for quite other reasons. "Why, that's true," said Mr. Jarvice, slowly, and in a voice suddenly grown smooth.
"Maunders told me that if I came to see you it might be to my advantage." "I think it will," replied Mr. Jarvice. "Have you seen this morning's paper?" "On'y the 'Sportsman'." "Then you have probably not noticed that your cousin, John Lattery, has been killed in the Alps." He handed his newspaper to Hine, who glanced at it indifferently. "Well, how does that affect me?" he asked.
It gives me an opportunity of doing a great deal of good in a quiet way. If I were to show you my books you would realize that many famous estates are only kept going through my assistance; and thus many a farm laborer owes his daily bread to me and never knows his debt. Why should I conceal it?" Mr. Jarvice turned toward his visitor with his hands outspread. Then his voice dropped.
"There's a girl," he said, with a coy and odious smile. Mr. Jarvice beat upon his desk with his fists in a savage anger. His carefully calculated plan was to be thwarted by a girl. "She's a dear," cried Walter Hine. Having made the admission, he let himself go. His vanity pricked him to lyrical flights. "She's a dear, she's a sob, she would never let me go, she's my little girl."
The high color paled in his face and his cheeks grew mottled. It seemed that fear as well as surprise came to him in the knowledge that Garratt Skinner was a friend of Walter Hine. "What is the matter?" repeated Hine. "It's nothing," replied Mr. Jarvice, hastily. "The heat, that is all." He crossed the room, and throwing up the window leaned for a few moments upon the sill.
Walter Hine was dressed in a cheap suit of tweed much the worse for wear, and he entered the room with the sullen timidity of the very shy. Moreover, he was a little unsteady as he walked, as though he had not yet recovered from last night's intoxication. Mr. Jarvice noted these points with his quick glance, but whether they pleased him or not there was no hint upon his face.
He looked suddenly up at Jarvice, who stood over against him at the other side of the table. "Garratt Skinner's address?" he said, with one of his flashes of cunning. "Yes, since you are staying there. I shall want to write to you." Walter Hine still hesitated. "You won't peach to Garratt Skinner about the allowance, eh?" "My dear fellow!" said Mr. Jarvice. He was more hurt than offended.
Jarvice who sent the telegram was Mr. Jarvice, the money-lender. Thus did Chayne work it out in his thoughts: "Jarvice, for some reason unknown, pays Walter Hine an allowance. Walter Hine gives it out that he receives it from his grandfather, whose heir he undoubtedly is, and being a vain person much exaggerates the amount.
Sidney Jarvice read the item in the Pullman car as he traveled from Brighton to his office in London. He removed his big cigar from his fat red lips, and became absorbed in thought. The train rushed past Hassocks and Three Bridges and East Croydon. Mr. Jarvice never once looked at his newspaper again.
Did you lose any of your first quarter's allowance to him besides the thousand?" Walter Hine lit his cigar and answered reluctantly: "Yes." "All of it?" "Oh no, no, not all of it." Jarvice did not press for the exact amount. He walked to the window and stood there with his hands in his pockets and his back toward his visitor. Walter Hine watched his shoulders in suspense and apprehension.
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