Livingstone, at this moment, was not feeling as wealthy as the row of figures in clean-cut lines that were now beginning to be almost constantly before his eyes might have seemed to warrant.

He was sitting sunk deep in his cushioned arm-chair.

The tweaks in his forehead that had annoyed him earlier in the evening had changed to twinges, and the twinges had now given place to a dull, steady ache.

And every thought of his wealth brought that picture of seven staring figures before his eyes, whilst, in place of the glow which they had brought at first, he now at every recollection of them had a cold thrill of apprehension lest they might appear.
James's inquiry, "Shall you be dining at home to-morrow ?" had recurred to him and now disturbed him.

It was a simple question; nothing remarkable in it.