He thrust his hand in his breast-pocket, in which, with his love of
ostentation, he always carried a bundle of notes and some loose gold,
and, as he held out his hand to Derrick, there was something crisp in
it.
Derrick shook the hand and pressed back the note; he could not speak for
a minute; then he said, rather huskily: "It's all right, Mr. Bloxford. You paid me on Friday night, and I've
plenty to go on with."
With that he went out, heavy-hearted, and Mr. Bloxford stood at the
door, his extraordinary face drawn into a thousand wrinkles and his lips
shaping strange oaths.