Walter Hine was troubled with doubts of quite another kind.
"But you come in somewhere," he said, bluntly. "On'y I'm hanged if I
see where."
"Of course I come in, my young friend," replied Jarvice, frankly. "I or
my executors. For we may have to wait a long time. I propose that you
execute in my favor a post-obit on your uncle's life, giving me--well, we
may have to wait a long time. Twenty years you suggested. Your uncle is
seventy-three, but a hale man, living in a healthy climate. We will say
four thousand pounds for every two thousand which I lend you. Those are
easy terms, Mr. Hine. I don't make you take cigars and sherry! No! I
think such practices almost reflect discredit on my calling. Two thousand
a year! Five hundred a quarter! Forty pounds a week! Forty-three with
your little income! Well, what do you say?"
Mr. Hine sat dazzled with the prospect of wealth, immediate wealth,
actually within his reach now. But he had lived amongst people who never
did anything for nothing, who spoke only a friendship when they proposed
to borrow money, and at the back of his mind suspicion and incredulity
were still at work. Somehow Jarvice would be getting the better of him.
In his dull way he began to reason matters out.
"But suppose I died before my uncle, then you would get nothing,"
he objected.
"Ah, to be sure! I had not forgotten that point," said Mr.
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