He held out a thin white hand. Matravers took it between his own.
In a few moments they were absorbed in figures and explanations. Finally the book was passed over to Matravers’ keeping.
“I will see what I can do,” he said quietly. “Some of these accounts should certainly be recovered. I will come down and let you know how I have got on.”
“You mean this!” he cried thickly. “Say it again—quick!”
“If you would! If you don’t mind! And, I wonder,—do you take a morning paper? If so, will you bring it when you’ve done with it, or an old one will do? I can’t read anything but newspapers; and lately I haven’t dared to spend a penny,—because of Freddy, you know! It’s so cursed lonely!”
“I will come, and I will bring you something to read,” Matravers promised. “I must go now!”
John Drage held out his hand wistfully.