“And was there nothing left?—no money coming in from anywhere?”
Pawson shook his head: “We collected all that some time ago—it came from some old ground rents.”
“And how has he lived since?” He wanted to hear it all; he could help better if he knew how far down the ladder to begin.
“From hand to mouth, really.” And then there followed his own and Gadgem's efforts to keep the wolf from the door; the sale of the guns, saddles, and furniture; the wrench over the Castullux cup—and what a godsend it was that Kirk got such a good price for it—down to the parting with the last article that either or both of them could sell or pawn, including his four splendid setters.
As the sad story fell from the attorney's sympathetic lips Harry would now and then cover his face with his hands in the effort to hide the tears. He knew that the ruin was now complete. He knew, too, that he had been the cause of it. Then his thoughts reverted to the old regime and its comforts: those which his uncle had shared with him so generously.
“And what has become of my uncle's servants?” he asked—“his cook, Aunt Jemima, and his body-servant, Todd?”
“I don't know what has become of the cook, but he took Todd with him.”
Harry heaved a sigh of relief. If Todd was with him life would still be made bearable for his uncle. Perhaps, after all, a winter with Tom Coston was the wisest thing he could have done.
One other question now trembled on his lips. It was one he felt he had no right to ask—not of Pawson—but it was his only opportunity, and he must know the truth if he was to carry out the other plans he had in view the day he dropped everything and came home without warning. At last he asked casually:
“Do you know whether my father returned to Uncle George the money he paid out for me?” Not that it was important—more as if he wanted to be posted on current events.