Wrayford hesitated. “If there’s anything more you want to ask me about—”
“Gad, no! I had full measure and running over this afternoon. The deuce of it is, I don’t see where the money’s all gone to. Luckily I’ve got plenty of nerve; I’m not the kind of man to sit down and snivel because I’ve been touched in Wall Street.”
Wrayford got to his feet again. “Then, if you don’t want me, I think I’ll go up to my room and put some finishing touches to a brief before I turn in. I must get back to town to-morrow afternoon.”
“All right, then.” Stilling set down his empty glass, and held out his hand with a tinge of alacrity. “Good night, old man.”
They shook hands, and Wrayford moved toward the door.
“I say, Austin—stop a minute!” his host called after him. Wrayford turned, and the two men faced each other across the hearth-rug. Stilling’s eyes shifted uneasily.
“There’s one thing more you can do for me before you leave. Tell Isabel about that loan; explain to her that she’s got to sign a note for it.”
Wrayford, in his turn, flushed slightly. “You want me to tell her?”
“Hang it! I’m soft-hearted—that’s the worst of me.”
Stilling moved toward the tray, and lifted the brandy decanter. “And she’ll take it better from you; she’ll have to take it from you. She’s proud. You can take her out for a row to-morrow morning—look here, take her out in the motor-launch if you like. I meant to have a spin in it myself; but if you’ll tell her—”