And a well-dressed man he was in spite of the frayed edges of his collar and shirt ruffles and the shiny spots in his trousers and coat where the nap was worn smooth, nor was there any man of his age who wore his clothes as well, no matter what their condition, or one who made so debonair an appearance.

Pawson was of that opinion to-night when St. George, his toilet complete, joined him at the bottom of the stairs.  Indeed he thought he had never seen his client look better—­a discovery which sent a spasm of satisfaction through his long body, for he had a piece of important news to tell him, and had been trying all day to make up his mind how best to break it.

“You look younger, Mr. Temple,” he began, “and, if you will allow me to say so, handsomer, every day.  Your trip to the Eastern Shore last spring did you no end of good,” and the young attorney crooked his long neck and elevated his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth in the effort to give to his sinuous body a semblance of mirth.

“Thank you, Pawson,” bowed St. George, graciously.  “You are really most kind, but that is because you are stone blind.  My shirt is full of holes, and it is quite likely I shall have to stand all the evening for fear of splitting the knees of my breeches.  Come—­out with it”—­he laughed—­“there is something you have to tell me or you would not be waiting for me here at this hour in the cold hall.”

Pawson smiled faintly, then his eyebrows lost their identity in some well-defined wrinkles in his forehead.

“I have, sir, a most unpleasant thing to tell you—­a very unpleasant thing.  When I tried this morning for a few days’ grace on that last overdue payment, the agent informed me, to my great surprise, that Mr. John Gorsuch had bought the mortgage and would thereafter collect the interest in person.  I am not sure, of course, but I am afraid Colonel Rutter is behind the purchase.  If he is we must be prepared to face the worst should he still feel toward you as he did when you and he”—­and he jerked his thumb meaningly in the direction of the dining-room—­“had it out—­in there.”

St. George compressed his lips.  “And so Rutter holds the big end of the whip after all, does he?” he exclaimed with some heat.  “He will find the skin on my back not a very valuable asset, but he is welcome to it.  He has about everything else.”

“But I’d rather pay it somehow if we could,” rejoined Pawson in a furtive way—­as if he had something up his sleeve he dare not spring upon him.

“Yes—­of course you would,” retorted St. George with a cynical laugh, slipping on his gloves.  “Pay it?—­of course pay it.  Pay everything and everybody!  What do you think I’d bring at auction, Pawson?  I’m white, you know, and so I can’t be sold on the block—­but the doctors might offer you a trifle for cutting-up purposes.  Bah!  Hand me my coat, Todd.”

A deprecatory smile flitted across the long, thin face of the attorney.  He saw that St. George was in no mood for serious things, and yet something must be done; certainly before the arrival of Gorsuch himself, who was known to be an exact man of business and who would have his rights, no matter who suffered.