“I will explain, Miss Sawyer.” Was he going to tell the truth, or invent another story?
“Arthur Spencer was the Colonel of the first regiment with which I was connected. I do not belong to it now. He is a poor man, and an inveterate gambler. I had not seen him for two years, when we met in New York just before I went to Boston. You are tired, Miss Sawyer.”
He pointed to a seat beneath some palms, and led her, unresistingly, to it.
“He asked me to dinner with him, and I went. Then he suggested a game of cards while we smoked and I foolishly consented. The stakes, at first, were small, and he won rapidly. He increased his bets and I was forced, against my will, to meet them. When we stopped playing, he had not only won all my money, but had my 'I O U' for three hundred dollars. I had to borrow money from him to pay my hotel bill and fare to Boston.”
Florence nodded. She could not speak.
“I had letters of introduction to Boston families—among them, your own. When that accident happened—” she looked up at him inquiringly—
{Illustration: “You have acknowledged that you are a gambler}
“No, don't think that of me—it was not intentional on my part—I was without money—the Colonel must be paid—my allowance was not due for ten days—I invented the story that I told your father.”
“It was a lie!” Florence choked as she uttered the accusing words.
“Yes, it was a lie, and one for which I have sincerely repented, I told my father, and he forgave me, but said, as the coat was gone, to let the matter drop, that nothing would be gained by confessing to your father as he had been paid, and had met with no loss.”