There was silence for nearly a minute during which Gladwyne sat very still in nerveless dismay. All resistance had melted out of him, his weakness was manifest—he could not face a crisis, there was no courage in him.
“The miserable young idiot!” he broke out at length in impotent rage. “This is not the first trouble in which he has involved me!”
“Just so,” said Lisle. “Not long ago his sister came here, begging you to save him, and you wouldn’t. It’s not my part to point what she must think of you. But I’m in a different position; you won’t refuse me.”
Gladwyne leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair as if he needed support, and his face grew haggard.
“The difficulty is that I’m helpless,” he declared.
Lisle regarded him with contempt.
“Brace up,” he advised him. “The fellow you’re afraid of is only flesh and blood; he has his weak point somewhere. Face him and find it, if you can’t talk him round. There’s no other way open to you.”
A brief silence followed; and then Gladwyne broke it.
“I’ll try. But suppose I can induce him to leave Crestwick alone?”
“So much the better for you,” Lisle answered with a dry smile. “I’m not here to make a bargain. I don’t want anything for myself.”