"Then
everything's jolly well off."
She swept out of the room, the two authors following in her wake like
porpoises behind a liner. Roland went to his bureau, unlocked it and
took out a bundle of documents. He let his fingers stray lovingly among
the fire insurance policies which energetic Mr. Montague had been at
such pains to secure from so many companies.
"And so," he said softly to himself, "am I."
THE EPISODE OF THE LIVE WEEKLY
Fourth of a Series of Six Stories
[First published in _Pictorial Review_, August 1916]
It was with a start that Roland Bleke realized that the girl at the
other end of the bench was crying. For the last few minutes, as far
as his preoccupation allowed him to notice them at all, he had been
attributing the subdued sniffs to a summer cold, having just recovered
from one himself.
He was embarrassed. He blamed the fate that had led him to this
particular bench, but he wished to give himself up to quiet
deliberation on the question of what on earth he was to do with
two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to which figure his fortune
had now risen.
The sniffs continued.
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