He looked yellow and dried up;
shivered now and then, and had a troublesome cough. "If I could
afford to be generous, I would be; I should enjoy it. It's one of
the worst evils of poverty, that a man can seldom obey the
promptings of his better self. I can't give you these letters; can't
afford to do so. You have glanced through them; you see they really
are what I said. The question is, what are they worth to you?"
Piers looked at the threadbare carpet, reflected, spoke.
"I'll give you fifty pounds."
A smile crept from the corners of Daniel's shrivelled lips to his
bloodshot eye.
"Why are you so anxious to have them," he said, "I don't know and
don't ask. But if they are worth fifty to you, they are worth more.
You shall have them for two hundred."
And at this figure the bundle of letters eventually changed hands.
It was a serious drain on Piers Otway's resources, but he could not
bargain long, the talk sickened him. And when the letters were in
his possession, he felt a joy which had no equivalent in terms of
cash.
He said to himself that he had bought them for Olga. In a measure,
of course, for all who would be relieved by knowing that Mrs.
Hannaford had told the truth; but first and foremost for Olga. On
Olga he kept his thoughts. He was persuading himself that in her he
saw his heart's desire.
For Piers Otway was one of those men who cannot live without a
woman's image to worship.
Pages:
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377