“I always liked him,” returned Laughlin. “The trouble is, he doesn’t like me.”
Marchmont looked up from his cigarette and his novel into Wolcott’s stern face and understood that something had gone wrong. He did not ask what, for his visitor left him no opportunity.
“Do you owe Haynes White any money?”
“I believe I do,” answered Marchmont, unpleasantly startled at this abrupt opening; “but that’s our business.”
“It’s other people’s business now,” retorted Wolcott, hotly. “He’s in bed sick. He’s sick because he hasn’t had enough to eat. He hasn’t had enough because you have taken the money he needed for food and won’t return it to him. Now you can cough up that money, or I’ll put the case into Grim’s hands to settle as he chooses. I won’t see a fellow like that fleeced of his money and starved to death without putting up some kind of a howl. It’s robbery!”
Marchmont gasped. The look of bravado had suddenly left him. “I didn’t know it was as bad as that, really I didn’t,” he said eagerly. “Here, I’ll give you all I’ve got left. It will cover the twenty dollars, anyway, and I’ll send for more to-night. You don’t think I’d keep money from a starving man, do you now? You must know me better than that.”
“I should hope you wouldn’t!” said Wolcott, whose indignation was somewhat appeased by the ready offer of the money, while the pleading tones affected him as the defiant ones had not. “How much more do you owe him?”
“About twenty,” answered Marchmont.
“How long will it take you to get it?”
“A week.”