"You needn't mention that. I remember very well. There's a white mark across the bridge of my nose, Brendon, that reminds me of what you did every time I look in the glass, and always will."
"You'll forget it before I do. But I can't lend you a hundred, nor yet fifty. I'll lend you—twenty the day after to-morrow. That's the very best I can offer."
"Useless. I want a hundred."
"Then I'm sorry, but I can't find it."
Weekes reflected. He was in a position considerably more straitened than he had confessed to Brendon. He had overreached himself from cupidity, and now stood in debt to several people, including his lawyer. In this last quarter Jarratt's relations were strained, and the man of business refused to wait longer. A natural darkness of disposition had increased as a result of these troubles. He had quarrelled with his mother, with his wife, and with his wife's father. He had lost his self-respect somewhat, and as that lessened he grew the riper for mischief. Now he became a little hot, and permitted himself to remember the secret past. At Brendon's refusal, events long gone by rose up in the other's mind, and he spoke.
"Better think twice. You never know who you are helping. This hundred, even if it pinched you a thought for the moment, might be a very good investment, though you don't get interest for it."
Brendon stared at him.
"Come out," he said. "The rain's done. Perhaps I shall understand a speech like that better in the open. And yet—how? To my ear that sounds a bit curious. Perhaps you'll explain it."
"No, I shan't—though I might, I dare say. 'Tis for you to decide. I want to be friends."
"Why not, I should like to know?"