"But you know the facts; or at least, more of them than the newspapers told. Did the claim really belong to him, or to James Garvin?"
Bartrow crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and again had recourse to his watch.
"I wish you'd leave the whole business up in the air, Connie, the way I'm trying to. It doesn't seem quite fair, somehow, to condemn him behind his back."
"But the facts," she insisted. "You know them, don't you?"
"Yes; and they're against him." Bartrow confessed it in sheer desperation. "The claim was Garvin's; Jeffard not only admitted it, but he started out on the chase with the declared determination of standing between Garvin and those two blacklegs who were trying to plunder him. That's all; that's as far as my facts go. Beyond that you—and the newspapers—know as much as I do."
"Not quite all, Dick. You say you helped him; that means that you lent him money, or borrowed it for him. Did he ever pay it back?"
Bartrow got upon his feet at that and glowered down upon her with mingled chagrin and awe in gaze and answer.
"Say, Connie, you come precious near to being uncanny at times, don't you know it? That was the one thing I didn't mean to tell any one. Yes, I borrowed for him; and no, he didn't pay it back. That's all—all of the all. If you put me in a stamp-mill you couldn't pound out anything else. Now, for pity's sake, let me get back to Miss Van Vetter before I fall in with the notion that I'm too transparent to be visible to the naked eye."
She rose and took his arm.
"You're good, Dickie," she said softly; "much too good for this world. I'm sorry for you, because it earns you so many buffetings."