His mouth opened and shut, and opened and shut.
"The letter, rogue! Are you going to give me the letter?" shouted the
Baron Hildebrand Anne fiercely.
Mr. Lambert tore himself from the window, and flung himself down on the
heather, sobbing. "Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!" he moaned,
"Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!--and costs!" Suddenly his wits
cleared . . . What a fool he'd been! . . . Why shouldn't he give the
boy the letter, and wire countermanding his instructions? . . . Oh, he
had been a fool!
He hurried to the window, and cried, "Yes, yes, I'll give it you! Give
me the paper. I've got a fountain pen!"
"You'd better have a drink of whiskey first; your hand will be too
shaky to write your usual handwriting," said the thoughtful Tinker,
handing him the bottle along with the note-paper.
Mr. Lambert took a drink, and indeed it steadied his hand. Sure that
he could make it useless, he wrote a careful and complete letter, lying
at full length on the floor, his only possible writing table.
He scrambled up, and thrust it through the window, crying, "Here you
are! Let me out!"
Tinker spelled the letter carefully through, and put it into another
letter he had already prepared to send to Sir Tancred's solicitors.
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