"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.