Clarke, with a sudden heartsick sense of what this all meant to him, assumed a stern air.
“Mr. Earle,” said he, “I must entreat that you come at once and present this matter to Polly. She ought to know particulars, that she may judge whether or not she will sacrifice her fortune to save you from the disgrace you have incurred.”
“What, now, with my house full of guests? Impossible. The affair will keep till to-morrow. I will be down to-morrow and tell her anything you wish.”
“She cannot wait till to-morrow. I must send the letter to-morrow which decides my future.”
“That’s unfortunate; but you can send your letter all the same. I know what her decision will be.”
Clarke felt that he knew too, but would not admit it to himself.
“I have said my say,” he remarked. “Either you will let her know your precise position to-night, or I will take it upon myself to ask her for the money for my own uses. She will not deny me, if I press her, any more than she will probably deny you. So take your choice. I am going back to the friends below.”
Earle, who had not expected such condign treatment from one whom he had hitherto regarded as a boy, glanced at the detective, and, with the characteristic shrug he had picked up in foreign countries, cried out in somewhat smothered tones, in which caution struggled oddly with his natural bravado:
“Well, we’ll compromise. I cannot leave the H. F. W. M.; but I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll write out the situation for my daughter, and you shall carry the paper with you. Won’t that do, considering the circumstances, eh?”
Clarke, to whom this man’s character was a perfect anomaly, murmured a hesitating consent and hurried down into the room below. Earle followed him, and, entering with frank jocularity, in striking contrast with the other’s dejected appearance, he cheerfully called out: