"Why, Madelaine," said Louise, breaking her chain of thought, "what are you thinking about?" "Thinking about?" said the girl, starting, and colouring slightly. "Oh, I was thinking about Mr Leslie just then." CHAPTER TWELVE. UNCLE LUKE'S SPARE CASH. "Late again," said old Crampton, as Harry Vine entered the office. "How I do hate the sight of that man's nose!" said the young man; and he stared hard, as if forced by some attraction. The old clerk frowned, and felt annoyed. "I beg pardon," he said. "Granted," said Harry, coolly. "I said I beg pardon, Mr Harry Vine." "I heard you." "But I thought you spoke." "No," grumbled Harry. "I didn't speak." "Then I will," said old Crampton merrily. "Good morning, Mr Harry Vine," and he rattled the big ruler by his desk. "Eh? oh, yes, I see. Didn't say it as I came in. Good morning, Mr Crampton." "Lesson for the proud young upstart in good behaviour," grumbled old Crampton. "Mother him!" muttered Harry, as he took his place at his desk, opened a big account book Crampton placed before him, with some amounts to transfer from one that was smaller, and began writing. But as he wrote, the figures seemed to join hands and dance before him; then his pen ceased to form others, and an imaginary picture painted itself on the delicately tinted blue paper with its red lines--a pleasant landscape in fair France with sunny hill-sides on which ranged in rows were carefully cultured vines. To the north and cast were softened bosky woods, and dominating all, one of those antique castellated chateaux with pepperbox towers and gilded vanes, such as he had seen in pictures or read of in some books. "If I only had the money," thought Harry, as he entered a sum similar to that which Pradelle had named. "He knows all these things. He has good advice from friends, and if we won,--Hah!" The chateau rose before his eyes again, bathed in sunshine. Then he pictured the terrace overlooking the vineyards--a grey old stone terrace, with many seats and sheltering trees, and along that terrace walked just such a maiden as Aunt Marguerite had described. _Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! Scratch_! His pen and Crampton's pen; and he had no money, and Pradelle's project to borrow as he had suggested was absurd. Ah, if he only had eighty-one pounds ten shillings and sixpence! the sum he now placed in neat figures in their appropriate columns. Old Crampton tilted back his tall stool, swung himself round, and lowered himself to the ground. Then crossing the office, he went into Van Heldre's private room, and there was the rattle of a key, a creaking hinge, as an iron door was swung open; and directly after the old man returned.