“Yes, of course you have,” said Mark, with a feeble laugh. “There, put me out of my misery, old chap. Sudden death, you know. Come on.”
“No,” said Richard, quietly. “I promised my poor father that I would never put my name to paper in that way, and I never will.”
“What?”
“You heard, Mark.”
“Do you mean to tell me that, after what you have said, you will not help me out of this bit of trouble?”
“No, I do not mean to tell you that. I want to help you.”
“Then, come on.”
“Yes, come on to Mr Draycott, and let’s ask him what is to be done.”
Mark Frayne leaped up from where he had rested in a sitting position upon the keyboard of the piano, giving his hands a bang down on either side, and producing fresh jangling discords, which seemed to fit with the harsh, mocking laugh he uttered.
“Good boy!” he cried. “What an excellent son! That old cock-o’-wax, the Admirable Crichton, was nowhere. You’d have beaten him into fits, Dick. Go on, say something else; it does me good; only be gentle. I couldn’t bear to be made such a saint as you are all at once.”