For answer, and without so much as looking at Harry Vine, Madelaine took the offered arm, and Pradelle tightened his hold as the couple walked away.
The grasp was needless, for Harry’s rage was evaporating fast, and giving place to a desolate sensation of despair.
“Look here,” said Pradelle; “you’ve kicked that over. You can’t ask him now.”
“No,” said Harry, gazing at the departing figures, and trying to call up something about the fair daughters of France; “no, I can’t ask him now.”
“Then look here, old fellow, I can’t stand by and see you thrown over by everybody like this. You know what your prospects are on your own relative’s showing, not mine; and you know what can be done if we have the money. You are not fit for this place, and I say you shall get out of it. Now then, you know how it can be done. Just a loan for a few weeks. Will you, or will you not?” Harry turned upon him a face that was ghastly pale. “But if,” he whispered hoarsely, “if we should fail?”
“Fail? You shan’t fail.”
“One hundred,” said Harry, hoarsely. “Well, I suppose so. We’ll make that do. Now then, I’m not going to waste time. Is it yes or no?”
Harry Vine felt a peculiar humming in the head, his mouth was hot and dry, and his lips felt parched. He looked Pradelle in the face, as if pleading to be let off; but there was only a cunning, insistent smile to meet him there, and once more the question came in a sharp whisper, “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” said Harry; and as soon as he had said that word, it was as if a black cloud had gathered about his life.