For some minutes he continued to reply dolefully,
and with a kind of shamefaced reluctance, to the questions
piled upon him. He was in evil luck: nothing had gone
well with him; it had been with the greatest difficulty
that he had scraped together enough to get back to London
on the chance of obtaining some expert commission;
practically he possessed nothing in the world beyond
the clothes on his back, and the contents of two old
carpet-bags--these admissions, by degrees, were wormed
from him.
"But have you parted with the concession, then, that you
bought from me?" Thorpe suddenly asked him. "Help yourself
to some more whiskey!"
Tavender sighed as he tipped the decanter. "It isn't
any good," he answered, sadly. "The Government repudiates
it--that is, the Central Government at Mexico. Of course,
I never blamed you. I bought it with my eyes open,
and you sold it in perfect good faith. I never doubted
that at all. But it's not worth the paper it's written
on--that's certain. It's that that busted me--that,
and some other things."
"Well--well!" said Thorpe, blankly. His astonishment was
obviously genuine, and for a little it kept him silent,
while he pondered the novel aspects of the situation
thus disclosed. Then his eyes brightened, as a new path
outlined itself.
"I suppose you've got the papers?--the concession and my
transfer to you and all that?" he asked, casually.
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