“Charming family—that is—er—all but the boy. He is a little wild, I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” assented Brant. He was finding his introduction by Dorothy a very considerable hindrance to his errand.
“The judge knows it, and tries to do what he can,” Mr. Crosswell went on, following out his own line of thought. “But Mrs. Langford puts the lad on a pedestal and so spoils him. But pardon me, you came on an errand of your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Brant braced himself and took the simplest way out of the entanglement. “You probably have many ways in which you can use money for charitable purposes, haven’t you, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Yes, indeed. You are always safe to assume that in the case of a working clergyman,” was the reply.
“I supposed so. I have some money here”—taking the roll of bills from his pocket—“which is, in a certain sense, what you might call conscience money. Would you object to adding it to your charity fund?”
“Not at all, if it be truly conscience money. But you must give me some assurance that it is—that there is no possibility of restitution to the proper parties.”
“There is none whatever. It is money which was won across the gaming table—not recently,” he added, in deference to the look of pained surprise in the kindly eyes, “but some months ago. I don’t know what else to do with it, and it will be truly an act of charity to me if you will take it.”
“Under those circumstances I shall be quite willing to disburse it for you, Mr. Brant. It is very commendable in you to take such an honourable view of the matter—a thing as commendable as it is rare, I assure you.”
But Brant could not let that stand. “It is a simple matter of justice, and I am afraid the motive is purely selfish. To be very frank about it, the stuff burns my fingers.”