“But you let March use it,” pursued Wolcott.
“I let him use it because I can’t help myself, not because I like it. It’s bound to get me into trouble sooner or later, but that’s nothing to him.”
“He probably doesn’t think you really object,” suggested Wolcott.
“I’ve told him twenty times at least that I do object,” responded Salter, almost tearful. “I don’t see what more I can say. Of course I can’t report him, and I’m not strong enough to fight him. If I were as big as you, I’d know what to do fast enough! As it is, some one is likely to see him going through my window ’most any time, and then I shall get it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Wolcott. “You aren’t supposed to see him.”
“I don’t see him, you can depend on that, and I try not to hear him; but I know who’s going through the window just the same, and I can’t say I don’t without lying.”
Wolcott climbed the stairs to his room, feeling very sorry for Salter and very much grieved with Marchmont. It seemed hardly possible that March could be so inconsiderate. If the grieving friend could have heard a conversation which took place in Marchmont’s room that same evening, other and stronger feelings might have mingled with his grief.
Wolcott had been gone scarcely ten minutes when a timid knock evoked from Marchmont a surly “Come in!” and Haynes White’s gaunt figure edged its way into the room.
Marchmont nodded coolly. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” returned White. “I’ve come to ask about that money.”