When he had finished his figures he reviewed them, tracing each total with his pencil's point; then quietly handed the pad to Mortimer who went over it, and nodded that it was correct.
Lydia rose. Quarrier said, without looking at her: "I have a blank cheque with me. May I use one of these pens?"
So he had brought a cheque! Had he supposed that a cheque might be necessary when Lydia called him up? Was he prepared to meet any demand of hers, too, even before Mortimer appeared on the scene?
"As long as you have a cheque with you, Howard," said Lydia quietly, "suppose you simply add to Mr. Mortimer's amount what you had intended to offer me?"
He stared at her without answering.
"That little remembrance for old time's sake. Don't you recollect?"
"No," said Quarrier.
"Why, Howard! Didn't you promise me all sorts of things when I wanted to go to your friend Mr. Siward, and explain that it was not his fault I got into the Patroons Club? Don't you remember I felt dreadfully that he was expelled--that I was simply wild to write to the governors and tell them how I took Merkle's clothes and drove to the club and waited until I saw a lot of men go in, and then crowded in with the push?"
Mortimer was staring at Quarrier out of his protruding eyes. The girl leaned forward, deliberate, self-possessed, the red lips edged with growing scorn.
"That was a dirty trick!" said Mortimer heavily. He took the pad, added a figure, passed it to Lydia, and she coolly wrote a total, underscoring it heavily.
"That is the amount," she said.
Quarrier looked at the pad which she had tossed upon the desk. Then he slowly wetted his pen with ink, and, laying the loose cheque flat, began to fill it in. Afterward he dried it, and, reading it carefully, pushed it aside and rose.
"It wouldn't be advisable for you to stop payment, you know," observed Mortimer insolently, lying back in his chair and stretching his legs.
"I know," said Quarrier, pausing to turn on them a deathly stare. Then he went away. After awhile they heard the door close. But there was no sound from the electric hansom, and Mortimer rose and walked to the window.
"He's gone," he said.
Lydia stood at the desk, examining the cheque.
"We ought to afford a decent touring-car now," she suggested--"like that yellow and black Serin-Chanteur car of Mr. Plank's."