“Of course he could,” Mr. Drage answered eagerly; “but I haven’t got a friend. See here!”
He took a little account book from under his pillow, and with trembling fingers thrust it before his visitor.
“You see all these amounts. They are all owing to me from those people—money lent, and one thing and another. There is an envelope with bills and I O U’s. They belong to me, you understand,” he said, with a sudden touch of dignity. “I never failed! My business was stopped when I was taken ill, but there was enough to pay everybody. Now some of these amounts have never been collected. If I could see these people myself, they would pay, or if I could get a friend whom I could trust! But there isn’t a man comes near me!”
“I—am not a business man,” Matravers said slowly; “but if you cared to explain things to me, I would go into the city and see what I could do.”
The man raised himself on his elbow and gazed at his visitor open-mouthed.
“You mean this!” he cried thickly. “Say it again,—quick! You mean it!”
“Certainly,” Matravers answered. “I will do what I can.”
John Drage did not doubt his good fortune for a moment. No one ever looked into Matravers’ face and failed to believe him.
“I—I’ll thank you some day,” he murmured. “You’ve done me up! Will you—shake hands?”