“How are you going to get the stuff to them, then?”
“Jason is coming here to fetch it.”
He rose from his chair, with startled eyes.
“Here? Coming here?” he cried. “Renalt! Don’t bring him—don’t let him!”
“Father!”
“He’s a bad fellow—a wicked son! He’ll drain us of all! What the doctor’s left he’ll take! Don’t let him come!”
He spoke wildly—imploringly. He held out his hands, kneading the fingers together in an agony of emotion.
“Dad!” I said. “Don’t go on so! You’re overwrought with fancies. How can he possibly help himself to more than we decide to give him? Try to pull yourself together—to be your old strong self.”
“Oh!” he moaned, “I do try, but you know so little. He’s a brazen, heartless wretch! We shall die paupers.”
His voice rose into a sort of shriek.