“Mr. Brant!” Mrs. Langford’s frown was quite portentous. “Do you mean to say they were here together, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Why, yes; that is, I—er—I found them both here when I came in.” Then, as the lines of displeasure deepened in the lady’s brow, he tried to set himself right by adding: “A most excellent young man, Mrs. Langford; I am glad to know that he is a friend of the family.”
“He is not,” she rejoined with aggressive emphasis. “He was never more than a calling acquaintance, and he is not even that at present. I have forbidden him the house.”
“Forbidden him the house?” echoed the good man in unfeigned astonishment. “May I—may I ask your reason?”
“You may; and I will tell you, if you will tell me what he was doing here.”
“He came on a very worthy errand, I assure you, Mrs. Langford; he came to devote a certain sum of money to charitable objects—money acquired in a manner which is all too common in this our day and generation, but which he felt that he could not conscientiously keep.”
“Humph! Some of the proceeds of his gambling, I suppose. It was a mere trick, Mr. Crosswell, and I hope you won’t let him impose upon you. I know his whole history, and it is thoroughly bad and disgustingly disreputable.”
“But, my dear madam, are we not commanded——”
“I know what you would say,” she broke in, with her hand on the door. “But you know my views, Mr. Crosswell. If a woman had done the tenth part of the evil things this man has, you would be the first to recommend sackcloth and ashes and a sisterhood, if not a solitary cell.”
The indignant lady swept down the walk and stepped into her carriage. “Conscience money, indeed!” she said to herself. “It is much more likely that he made the whole thing an excuse to get a chance to talk to Dorothy. Well, I’ll put a stop to that!”