Wingrave smiled coldly.
“My dear Aynesworth,” he said, “you astonish me. I am not interested in this young man’s future or in his matrimonial arrangements. He has gambled with me and lost. I presume that he would have taken my money if I had been the fool they all thought me. As it is, I mean to have his—down to the last cent!”
“He isn’t like the others,” Aynesworth protested doggedly. “He’s only a boy—and it seems such jolly hard luck, doesn’t it, only four months married! New York hasn’t much pity for paupers. He looks mad enough to blow his brains out. Have him up, sir, and see if you can’t compromise!”
“Fetch him,” Wingrave said curtly.
Aynesworth hurried downstairs. The boy was walking restlessly up and down the room. The look he turned upon Aynesworth was almost pitiful.
“He’ll see you again,” Aynesworth said hurriedly. “Come along.”
The boy wrung his hand.
“You’re a brick!” he declared.