"Well, sir," he said, "what is to be done?"
Sir Geoffrey's face was a study of irresolution. "Let's leave it till to-morrow, Ned," he said at last; "the night will bring wisdom. But I expect Hirsch is right. He has a wonderfully clear head; and I only wish that Helen----"
"I would leave Helen out of the business if I were you, sir," interrupted Ned angrily.
It was intolerable to think of her as possible part payment. As he lit his candle and made his way to the old wing, "among the ruins," as she called it, he told himself that he had half a mind to buy out all other interests and spend an extra thousand or two in throwing the whole gim-crack building over the cliffs. And it was all so useless! Helen didn't want the money; she was craving to live on an hospital nurse's pay.
"Ned," said a voice at the door, just as he had taken off his coat, "let me in, please, I must see you."
It was Helen herself. Her eyes were blazing bright, her face was pale. She had flung a white shawl over her bare shoulders, yet she shivered.
"Ned," she said swiftly, "thank God you're here! You must come with me--you will, won't you? Put on your thick shoes and come as you are. It is quite warm--there is only a fog."
"Come," he echoed, "come where?"
She seemed a trifle confused, and passed her hand over her forehead.
"Down to the point, of course; they must be warned----"