"
"And say, John Taylor, you're my friend." Cresswell stretched his hand
across the desk, and as he bent forward the pistol crashed to the floor.
_Nineteen_
THE DYING OF ELSPETH
Rich! This was the thought that awakened Harry Cresswell to a sense of
endless well-being. Rich! No longer the mirage and semblance of wealth,
the memory of opulence, the shadow of homage without the substance of
power--no; now the wealth was real, cold hard dollars, and in piles. How
much? He laughed aloud as he turned on his pillow. What did he care?
Enough--enough. Not less than half a million; perhaps three-quarters of
a million; perhaps--was not cotton still rising?--a whole round million!
That would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a year. Great
heavens! and he'd been starving on a bare couple of thousand and trying
to keep up appearances! today the Cresswells were almost millionaires;
aye, and he might be married to more millions.
He sat up with a start. Today Mary was going North. He had quite
forgotten it in the wild excitement of the cotton corner. He had
neglected her. Of course, there was always the hovering doubt as to
whether he really wanted her or not. She had the form and carriage; her
beauty, while not startling, was young and fresh and firm. On the other
hand there was about her a certain independence that he did not like to
associate with women.
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