“Well,” said the other, “about three months ago an old college friend of mine, one Felix Emory, came to me from Boston. He was in bad with his people, and was out of money. I took him in here and tried to brace him up. I couldn’t do it. His moral stamina was gone.”
Lemon paused a moment, and, with a deprecatory smile, pointed to an opium pipe which lay on the rug near the couch.
“I understand,” Ned said.
“I fed him, and clothed him, and introduced him at the club, and gave him every chance in the world to get a brace, but he fought me off. All he cared for was a pipe and a pill and a place to sleep it off.”
“And so you gave him up as a bad proposition?” asked Ned.
“Not exactly. He wanted to go to the mountains on a hunting trip. Well, I thought it would benefit his health, so I rigged up an outfit for his use and let him go. You say the man was dead?”
“Quite dead,” Ned replied.
“Too much poppy, I presume?” Lemon asked with an ashamed smile.
“Too much steel,” Ned answered, sharply.
Lemon stared at the boy for an instant, his eyes more anxious than ever, and arose shakingly to his feet.