“Yes. I’ve been away nearly a fortnight.”
“And how did you find him?”
“I am sorry to say very broken down—ill and desolate.”
“But with sacks of gold mohurs all round the rooms, and chandeliers of real diamonds. I hope you have some in your pockets?” said Waring, gaily.
“No. He is a comparatively poor man; at least he has just enough to live upon—an annuity. The bulk of his fortune goes, as it ought to go, to the Cardozo family.”
“Well, one fortune is enough for you,” rejoined Clarence. “I came up post haste. I rode your bay pony in the last ten miles, and, by Jove! I thought I had killed him. It was frightfully hot, and I put on the pace. I gave him a whole bottle of whisky when I got in.”
“A whole bottle! Well, I hope you will give him some soda-water to-morrow morning. What a head the poor brute will have!” he added, with a wintry smile. “But what was the reason for such desperate riding? Has Miss Potter come back?”
“Miss Potter be hanged!” was the unchivalrous reply. “I came up as hard as I could lay leg to the ground to get you to help me out of an awful hole—an infernal money muddle.”
“To help you again! I thought that five hundred pounds would put you straight.”
“Good heavens, man! it’s not hundreds, but thousands that would do that!” cried the prodigal.