“I see that you quite realise your position, Mr. Cromarty,” he said.
“Realise it!” cried the young man. “My God, I’m in a worse hole—” he broke off abruptly.
“Worse than you have admitted to me?” said Simon quickly and again with a smile in his eye.
Malcolm Cromarty hesitated, “Sir Reginald is so damned narrow! If he wants to drive me to the devil—well, let him! But I say, Mr. Rattar, what are you going to do?”
For some moments Simon said nothing. At length he answered:
“I shall not press for repayment at present.”
His visitor rose with a sigh of relief and as he said goodbye his condescending manner returned as readily as it had gone.
“Good morning and many thanks,” said he, and then hesitated for an instant. “You couldn’t let me have a very small cheque, just to be going on with, could you?”
“Not this morning, Mr. Cromarty.”
Mr. Cromarty’s look of despair returned.
“Well,” he cried darkly as he strode to the door, “people who treat a man in my position like this are responsible for—er—!” The banging of the door left their precise responsibility in doubt.
Simon Rattar gazed after him with an odd expression. It seemed to contain a considerable infusion of complacency. And then he rang for his clerk.
“Get me the Cromarty estate letter book,” he commanded.
The book was brought and this time he had about ten minutes to himself before the clerk entered again.
“Mr. Cromarty of Stanesland to see you, sir,” he announced.
This announcement seemed to set the lawyer thinking hard. Then in his abrupt way he said:
“Show him in.”
IV
The Man from the West
Mr. Rattar’s second visitor was of a different type. Mr. Cromarty of Stanesland stood about six feet two and had nothing artistic in his appearance, being a lean strapping man in the neighbourhood of forty, with a keen, thin, weather-beaten face chiefly remarkable for its straight sharp nose, compressed lips, reddish eyebrows, puckered into a slight habitual frown, and the fact that the keen look of the whole was expressed by only one of his eyes, the other being a good imitation but unmistakeably glass. The whole effect of the face, however, was singularly pleasing to the discerning critic. An out of door, reckless, humorous, honest personality was stamped on every line of it and every movement of the man. When he spoke his voice had a marked tinge of the twang of the wild west that sounded a little oddly on the lips of a country gentleman in these northern parts. He wore an open flannel collar, a shooting coat, well cut riding breeches and immaculate leather leggings, finished off by a most substantial pair of shooting boots. Unlike Mr. Malcolm Cromarty, he evidently looked upon his visit as expected.
“Good morning, Mr. Rattar,” said he, throwing his long form into the clients’ chair as he spoke. “Well, I guess you’ve got some good advice for me this morning.”
Simon Rattar was proverbially cautious, but today his caution struck his visitor as quite remarkable.
“Um,” he grunted. “Advice, Mr. Cromarty? Umph!”
“Don’t trouble beating about the bush,” said the tall man. “I’ve been figuring things out myself and so far as I can see, it comes to this:—that loan from Sir Reginald put me straight in the meantime, but I’ve got to cut down expense all round to keep straight, and I’ve got to pay him back. Of course you know his way when it’s one of the clan he’s dealing with. ‘My dear Ned, no hurry whatever. If you send my heir a cheque some day after I’m gone it will have the added charm of surprise!’ Well, that’s damned decent, but hardly business. I want to get the whole thing off my chest. Got the statement made up?”
Simon shook his head.
“Very sorry, Mr. Cromarty. Haven’t had time yet.”
“Hell!” said Mr. Cromarty, though in a cheerful voice, and then added with an engaging smile, “Pardon me, Mr. Rattar. I’m trying to get educated out of strong language, but, Lord, at my time of life it’s not so damned—I mean dashed easy!”
Even Simon Rattar’s features relaxed for an instant into a smile.
“And who is educating you?” he enquired.
Mr. Cromarty looked a little surprised.
“Who but the usual lady? Gad, I’ve told you before of my sister’s well meant efforts. It’s a stiff job making a retired cow puncher into a high grade laird. However, I can smoke without spitting now, which is a step on the road towards being a Lord Chesterfield.”
He smiled humorously, stretched out his long legs and added:
“It’s a nuisance, your not having that statement ready. When I’ve got to do business I like pushing it through quick. That’s an American habit I don’t mean to get rid of, Mr. Rattar.”
Mr. Rattar nodded his approval.
“Certainly not,” said he.
“I’ve put down my car,” his visitor continued. “Drive a buggy now—beg its pardon, a trap, and a devilish nice little mare I’ve got in her too. In fact, there are plenty of consolations for whatever you have to do in this world. I’m only sorry for my sister’s sake that I have to draw in my horns a bit. Women like a bit of a splash—at least judging from the comparatively little I know of ’em.”
“Miss Cromarty doesn’t complain, I hope?”
“Oh, I think she’s beginning to see the necessity for reform. You see, when both my civilised elder brothers died—” he broke off, and then added: “But you know the whole story.”
“I would—er—like to refresh my memory,” said Simon; and there seemed to be a note of interest and almost of eagerness in his voice that appeared to surprise his visitor afresh.
“First time I ever heard of your memory needing refreshing!” laughed his visitor. “Well, you know how I came back from the wild and woolly west and tried to make a comfortable home for Lilian. We were neither of us likely to marry at
