“Then we’ll go up and see the old man; and let’s hear what he’ll say to it all. He won’t deny that he’s in my debt.”
“Poor old fellow, no,” groaned Hendon to himself.
“I say,” said Poynter, turning grave, “where’s Rich? She hasn’t gone to see that sailor chap?”
“I don’t know whom you mean by ‘sailor chap,’” said Hendon bitterly.
“Then I’ll tell you,” he said. “I mean Mark Heath, and I’ve got a theory of my own about him.”
“Curse you and your theories!” cried Hendon fiercely.
“Yes, and bless me and my money,” said Poynter, laughingly.
“Stop! Where are you going?”
“This is my house, or as good as mine,” said Poynter; “and I’m going up to see my poor old father-in-law to be. I don’t think he’s properly seen to, and I mean to have him off down to the seaside, to try and pull him round. Coming?”
Hendon was so much staggered by his visitor’s cool insolence that Poynter was at the foot of the staircase before he thought to follow; and then, feeling that this man had a hold upon him that he dared not shake off, he followed him up-stairs, and into the sparely-furnished front drawing-room in which the doctor had been lying all through his illness.