“Milly, my darling, I’ll do everything I can,” cried the doctor; “but you ask impossibilities. The house is not mine.”
“Not yours, father?”
“Hush! hush, my dear!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell. “I can’t explain to you now, but poor papa was obliged to sell it a little while ago.”
“Where is the money?” said Millicent fiercely.
“It was all gone before—the mortgages,” said Mrs Luttrell.
“And who bought it?” cried Millicent.
“Mr Bayle.”
There was a pause of a few moments’ duration, and then the suffering woman seemed to flash out into a fit of passion.
“Mr Bayle again!” she cried.
“Yes, Mr Bayle, our friend.”