Quin, who had been staring out of the window, deep in thought, turned abruptly to Mr. Martel.
"When do you have to have the money?" he asked.
"By next Wednesday, the first—no, the second of April. The date is burned in my memory."
"You see, there's no time to lose," said Eleanor. "I'd rather die than do it, but I'll ask Harold Phipps to-morrow morning."
"No, you won't," said Quin peremptorily; "I am going to get the money myself."
"But he wouldn't lend it to you. You don't understand!"
"Yes, I do. Will you leave the matter with me until Sunday night, Mr. Martel, and let me see what I can do?"
Quin made the suggestion as calmly as if he had unlimited resources at his disposal. Had the sum been six million dollars instead of six thousand, he would have made the offer just the same. The paramount necessity of the moment was to keep Eleanor Bartlett from borrowing money from a man like Harold Phipps. Mr. Martel's claims were of secondary consideration.
"We might let him try, grandfather," suggested Eleanor. "If he doesn't succeed, there would still be time for me to speak to the Captain."
"But, my boy, where would you turn? What influence could you bring to bear?"