“Thank you, sir; I hope you are right. I shall do my best.”
“And that will be good enough. I wish you the best of luck, which you will deserve.”
And the physician left the house thinking that the calamity that had befallen Frank Merriwell was not nearly as severe as he had at first imagined.
Frank ate a good breakfast, served by Toots, and then he went up and saw the professor. Scotch awoke, but turned his face away, with a weary sigh, and did not look at Frank again.
There was business ahead of Merry, for it was necessary to learn just how his affairs stood. He obtained the keys to the professor’s desk, and to the little safe, and spent the forenoon in rummaging among private papers and examining documents, but he could find very little to satisfy him.
After dinner he visited the lawyer who had done much of the business for the estate. Two hours spent with the lawyer convinced Frank that he would be fortunate to find a dollar that he could call his own when everything was settled. Indeed, it looked as if he would be forced to sell the old place in order to square all claims against him.
The lawyer attempted to condole with him, but Frank cut him short with the declaration that, although he appreciated the motive, he was not in need of sympathy. He left the office with a firm step, his head erect, his manner betraying no despondency.
And just outside the door he met Darius Conrad.
“Ah, Mr. Merriwell,” said the rascal, with an oily smile that was followed immediately by a look of pretended sorrow; “this is a most unfortunate affair. I assure you that you have my heartfelt sympathy in your misfortune.”
Frank stopped and surveyed the man from his head to his feet, and the look on his face was crushing. Darius Conrad seemed to wither before it, and he rubbed his hands together in a nervous manner.