"What can you do?" Mr. Waddington replied. "You must keep him until—"
"Upon children," Burton said thoughtfully, "the effect may be more lasting. No news, I suppose, of the tree?"
Mr. Waddington shook his head sorrowfully. "I've had a private detective now working ever since that day," he declared. "The man thinks me, of course, a sort of lunatic, but I have made it worth his while to find it. I should think that every child in the neighborhood has been interviewed. What about the novel?"
"Come back from the publishers," Burton replied. "I have sent it away to some one else."
Mr. Waddington looked at him compassionately.
"You were relying upon that, were you not?"
"Entirely," Burton admitted. "If I don't earn some money before
Saturday, I shan't know how to send the three pounds to Ellen."
"You had better," Mr. Waddington said gently, accept a trifling loan.
"Not if I can help it," Burton answered, hastily. "Thank you all the same, Mr. Waddington, but I would rather not. We will see what happens. I am going back now to try and write something."
They returned to the office. Burton pointed towards the easy-chair.