"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine is cursed proud, but so am I—as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart of a Smivvle,—as all the world knows,—becomes a—an accursed flint, sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand to—ah—pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to remember if you fastened the front door securely?"
"No."
"I ask because the latch is faulty,—like most things about here,—and in this delightful Garden of Hatton and the—ah—hot-beds adjoining there are weeds, sir, of the rambling species which, given opportunity—will ramble anywhere. Several of 'em—choice exotics, too! have found their way up here lately,—one of 'em got in here this very morning after Barrymaine had gone,—characteristic specimen in a fur cap. But, as I was saying, you may have noticed that Chichester is not altogether—friendly towards you?"
"Chichester?" said Barnabas. "Yes!"
"And it would almost seem that he's determined that Barrymaine shall—be the same. Poor fellow's been very strange lately,—Gaunt's been pressing him again worse than ever,—even threatened him with the Marshalsea. Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually brimmed—Chichester's doing, of course,—and he seems to consider you his mortal enemy, and—in short, I think it only right to—put you on your guard."
"You mean against—Chichester?"
"I mean against—Barrymaine!"
"Ah!" said Barnabas, chin in hand, "but why?"
"Well, you'll remember that the only time you met him he was inclined to be—just a l-ee-tle—violent, perhaps?"
"When he attacked me with the bottle,—yes!" sighed Barnabas, "but surely that was only because he was drunk?"
"Y-e-s, perhaps so," said Mr. Smivvle, fumbling for his whisker again, "but this morning he—wasn't so drunk as usual."
"Well?"
"And yet he was more violent than ever—raved against you like a maniac."
"But—why?"
"It was just after he had received another of Jasper Gaunt's letters,—here it is!" and, stooping, Mr. Smivvle picked up a crumpled paper that had lain among the ashes, and smoothing it out, tendered it to Barnabas. "Read it, sir,—read it!" he said earnestly, "it will explain matters, I think,—and much better than I can. Yes indeed, read it, for it concerns you too!" So Barnabas took the letter, and this is what he read:
DEAR MR. BARRYMAINE,—In reply to your favor, re interest, requesting more time, I take occasion once more to remind you that I am no longer your creditor, being merely his agent, as Mr. Beverley himself could, and will, doubtless, inform you.
I am, therefore, compelled to demand payment within thirty days from date; otherwise the usual steps must be taken in lieu of same.
Yours obediently,
JASPER GAUNT.
Now when Barnabas had read the letter a sudden fit of rage possessed him, and, crumpling the paper in his fist, he dashed it down and set his foot upon it.
"A lie!" he cried, "a foul, cowardly lie!"
"Then you—you didn't buy up the debt, Beverley?"
"No! no!—I couldn't,—Gaunt had sold already, and by heaven I believe the real creditor is—"
"Ha!" cried Smivvle, pointing suddenly, "the door wasn't fastened,
Beverley,—look there!"
Barnabas started, and glancing round, saw that the door was opening very slowly, and inch by inch; then, as they watched its stealthy movement, all at once a shaggy head slid into view, a round head, with a face remarkably hirsute as to eyebrow and whisker, and surmounted by a dingy fur cap.
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, speaking hoarsely, and rolling its eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—vich on ye might that be, now?"
"Ha?" cried Mr. Smivvle angrily, "so you're here again, are you!"
"'Scuse me, gents!" said the head, blinking its round eyes at them, "name o' Barrymaine,—no offence,—vich?"
"Come," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to tug at his whiskers,— "come, get out,—d'ye hear!"
"But, axing your pardons, gents,—vich on ye might be—name o'
Barrymaine?"
"What do you want with him—eh?" demanded Mr. Smivvle, his whiskers growing momentarily more ferocious, "speak out, man!"
"Got a letter for 'im—leastways it's wrote to 'im," answered the head, "'ere's a B, and a Nay, and a Nar, and another on 'em, and a Vy,—that spells Barry, don't it? Then, arter that, comes a M., and a—"
"Oh, all right,—give it me!" said Mr. Smivvle, rising.
"Are you name o' Barrymaine?"
"No, but you can leave it with me, and I—"
"Leave it?" repeated the head, in a slightly injured tone, "leave it? axing your pardons, gents,—but burn my neck if I do! If you ain't name o' Barrymaine v'y then—p'r'aps this is 'im a-coming upstairs now,—and werry 'asty about it, too!" And, sure enough, hurried feet were heard ascending; whereupon Mr. Smivvle uttered a startled exclamation, and, motioning Barnabas to be seated in the dingiest corner, strode quickly to the door, and thus came face to face with Ronald Barrymaine upon the threshold.
"Why, Barry!" said he, standing so as to block Barrymaine's view of the dingy corner, "so you've come back, then?"
"Come back, yes!" returned the other petulantly, "I had to,—mislaid a letter, must have left it here, somewhere. Did you find it?"
