"I am glad of that," he said. "There are people, of course, who are prejudiced against him. He is a Jew, and he's new, and he has that queer sort of indefinable position which attracts criticism. But I think you will find him a valuable friend."
Daventry's voice had weakened to a whisper, and he lay back upon his pillows with his eyes closed. Cynthia moved, but the pressure of his hand retained her. She sat and waited, speaking no word and holding back the tears which smarted in her eyes. Robert Daventry spoke again.
"There's some medicine," he said. "Hill gave it me to keep me going. It's in a glass."
Cynthia lifted a glass filled with some grayish liquid, and held it to the old man's lips. He drank, and resumed:
"I have written down during the last day or two the heads of what I wanted to say on a paper."
Cynthia found a slip of paper on the table by the bedside.
"Just read."
There were some words written one below the other on the paper in a straggling hand. Cynthia read them out.
"Money."
"I have said all I have to say, I think, about that."