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the impression
that it had taken him a few days to raise the cash.
    While waiting for the bus, he couldn’t help noticing how few people bothered to say good morning, or even acknowledge him. Certainly no one crossed the road to pass the time of day.
    Twenty men in three vans spent the next day loading and unloading as they travelled back and forth between The Willows and the auctioneers’ storeroom in the High Street.
It was not until the early evening that the last stick of furniture had been removed from the house.
    As he walked through the empty rooms, Cornelius was surprised to find himself thinking that, with one or two exceptions, he wasn’t going to miss many of his worldly possessions. He retired
to the bedroom – the only room in the house that was still furnished – and continued to read the novel Elizabeth had recommended before his downfall.
    The following morning he only had one call, from his nephew Timothy, to say he was up for the weekend, and wondered if Uncle Cornelius could find time to see him.
    ‘Time is the one thing I still have plenty of’ replied Cornelius.
    ‘Then why don’t I drop round this afternoon?’ said Timothy. ‘Shall we say four o’clock?’
    ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a cup of tea,’ said Cornelius, ‘but I finished the last packet this morning, and as I’m probably leaving the
house next week . . .’
    ‘It’s not important,’ said Timothy, who was unable to mask his distress at finding the house stripped of his uncle’s possessions.
    ‘Let’s go up to the bedroom. It’s the only room that still has any furniture in it – and most of that will be gone by next week.’
    ‘I had no idea they’d taken everything away. Even the picture of Daniel,’ Timothy said as he passed an oblong patch of a lighter shade of cream than the rest of the wall.
    ‘And my chess set,’ sighed Cornelius. ‘But I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life.’ He began to climb the stairs to the bedroom.
    Cornelius sat in the only chair while Timothy perched on the end of the bed. The old man studied his nephew more closely. He had grown into a fine young man. An open face, with clear brown eyes
that served to reveal, to anyone who didn’t already know, that he had been adopted. He must have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight – about the same age Daniel would have been if he were
still alive. Cornelius had always had a soft spot for his nephew, and had imagined that his affection was reciprocated. He wondered if he was about to be disillusioned once again.
    Timothy appeared nervous, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot as he perched on the end of the bed. ‘Uncle Cornelius,’ he began, his head slighdy bowed, ‘as you know, I have
received a letter from Mr Vintcent, so I thought I ought to come to see you and explain that I simply don’t have £1,000 to my name, and therefore I’m unable to repay my debt at
present.’
    Cornelius was disappointed. He had hoped that just one of the family . . .
    ‘However,’ the young man continued, removing a long, thin envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket, ‘on my twenty-first birthday my father presented me with shares of 1 per
cent of the company, which I think must be worth at least £1,000, so I wondered if you would consider taking them in exchange for my debt – that is, until I can afford to buy them
back.’
    Cornelius felt guilty for having doubted his nephew even for a moment. He wanted to apologise, but knew he couldn’t if the house of cards was to remain in place for a few more days. He
took the widow’s mite and thanked Timothy.
    ‘I am aware just how much of a sacrifice this must be for you,’ said Cornelius, ‘remembering how many times you have told me in the past of your ambition to take over the
company when your father eventually retires, and your dreams of expanding into areas he has refused even to contemplate.’
    ‘I don’t think he’ll ever retire,’ said Timothy, with a sigh.