CHAPTER XVI. Final Adjustment of the Leather Business

Finsbury brothers were ushered, at ten the next morning, into a large

apartment in Michael's office; the Great Vance, somewhat restored from

yesterday's exhaustion, but with one foot in a slipper; Morris, not

positively damaged, but a man ten years older than he who had left

Bournemouth eight days before, his face ploughed full of anxious

wrinkles, his dark hair liberally grizzled at the temples.

Three persons were seated at a table to receive them: Michael in

the midst, Gideon Forsyth on his right hand, on his left an ancient

gentleman with spectacles and silver hair. 'By Jingo, it's Uncle Joe!'

cried John.

But Morris approached his uncle with a pale countenance and glittering

eyes.

I'll tell you what you did!' he cried. 'You absconded!'

Good morning, Morris Finsbury,' returned Joseph, with no less asperity;

you are looking seriously ill.'

'No use making trouble now,' remarked Michael. 'Look the facts in the

face. Your uncle, as you see, was not so much as shaken in the accident;

a man of your humane disposition ought to be delighted.'

257

The Wrong Box