“Nonsense! Be a man.”
“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”
“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”
“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”
“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”
Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.
“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”
He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.
“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.
“Good God!”