“What is the matter, Flood?” she asked, suddenly, again, her breast heaving, her delicate, rounded fingers interlacing. “I heard a man say once that you were ‘as deep as the sea.’ He did not mean it kindly, but I do. You are in trouble, and I want to share it if I can. Where were you going when you came across me here?”
“To see old Busby, the quack-doctor up there,” he answered, nodding toward a shrubbed and wooded hillock behind them.
“Old Busby!” she rejoined, in amazement. “What do you want with him—not medicine of that old quack, that dreadful man?”
“He cures people sometimes. A good many out here owe him more than they’ll ever pay him.”
“Is he as rich an old miser as they say?”
“He doesn’t look rich, does he?” was the enigmatical answer.
“Does any one know his real history? He didn’t come from nowhere. He must have had friends once. Some one must once have cared for him, though he seems such a monster now.”
“Yet he cures people sometimes,” he rejoined, abstractedly. “Probably there’s some good underneath. I’m going to try and see.”
“What is it? What is your business with him? Won’t you tell me? Is it so secret?”
“I want him to help me in a case I’ve got in hand. A client of mine is in trouble—you mustn’t ask about it; and he can help, I think—I think so.” He got to his feet. “I must be going, Di,” he added. Suddenly a flush swept over his face, and he reached out and took both her hands. “Oh, you are a million times too good for me!” he said. “But if all goes well, I’ll do my best to make you forget it.”