“But wherefore such precautions? You blind—you deceive me; what have you done?—what is your employment now? You are mute. Hark you, Gawtrey. I have pinned my fate to you—I am fallen from hope itself! At times it almost makes me mad to look back—and yet you do not trust me. Since your return to Paris you are absent whole nights—often days; you are moody and thoughtful—yet, whatever your business, it seems to bring you ample returns.”
“You think that,” said Gawtrey, mildly, and with a sort of pity in his voice; “yet you refuse to take even the money to change those rags.”
“Because I know not how the money was gained. Ah, Gawtrey, I am not too proud for charity, but I am for—” He checked the word uppermost in his thoughts, and resumed—
“Yes; your occupations seem lucrative. It was but yesterday Birnie gave me fifty napoleons, for which he said you wished change in silver.”
“Did he? The ras— Well! and you got change for them?”
“I know not why, but I refused.”
“That was right, Philip. Do nothing that man tells you.”
“Will you, then, trust me? You are engaged in some horrible traffic! it may be blood! I am no longer a boy—I have a will of my own—I will not be silently and blindly entrapped to perdition. If I march thither, it shall be with my own consent. Trust me, and this day, or we part to-morrow.”
“Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to know.”
“It matters not. I have come to my decision—I ask yours.”