What sort of a friend do you call that?"
Pay him and get rid of him. There was the course of proceeding
suggested by the private counsellor in Mountjoy's bosom.
"Have you got the publisher's estimate of expenses?" he asked.
The doctor instantly produced the document.
To a rich man the sum required was, after all, trifling enough.
Mountjoy sat down at the writing-table. As he took up a pen, Mr.
Vimpany's protuberant eyes looked as if they would fly out of his head.
"If I lend you the money--" Hugh began.
"Yes? Yes?" cried the doctor.
"I do so on condition that nobody is to know of the loan but
ourselves."
"Oh, sir, on my sacred word of honour--" An order on Mountjoy's bankers
in Paris for the necessary amount, with something added for travelling
expenses, checked Mr. Vimpany in full career of protestation. He tried
to begin again: "My friend! my benefactor--"
He was stopped once more. His friend and benefactor pointed to the
clock.
"If you want the money to-day, you have just time to get to Paris
before the bank closes."
Mr. Vimpany did want the money--always wanted the money; his gratitude
burst out for the third time: "God bless you!"
The object of that highly original form of benediction pointed through
the window in the direction of the railway station.
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