“I have been away a long time, Mr. Pawson,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “For three months—four now—I have had no letters from anybody. It was my fault partly, but let that go. I want you to answer some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth—all the truth. I haven't any use for any other kind of man—do you understand? Is my mother alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Alec? Is he all right?”
Pawson nodded.
“And my uncle? Is he ruined?—so badly ruined that he is suffering? Tell me.” There was a peculiar pathos in his tone—so much so that Pawson, who had been standing, settled into a chair beside him that his answers might, if possible, be the more intimate and sympathetic.
“I'm afraid he is. The only hope is the postponement in some way of the foreclosure of the mortgage on this house until times get better. It wouldn't bring its face value to-day.”
Harry caught his breath: “My God!—you don't tell me so! Poor Uncle George—so fine and splendid—so good to everybody, and he has come to this! And about this mortgage—who owns it?”
“Mr. Gorsuch, I understand, owns it now: he bought it of the Tyson estate.”
“You mean John Gorsuch—my father's man of business?”
“Yes.”