She squeezed her guardian's arm in a manner which a Frenchman would have described as très câline.
"I think I had better put you on an allowance," said Hughie.
Joan's eyes danced.
"Oh, you ripper! How much?"
"Can't say," replied Hughie, "until I've been up to town and seen the bankers."
"When are you going?"
"To-morrow: that's why I wanted to talk to you to-day. You see, your money is in two parts, so to speak. One lot is tied up in such a way that it can't be touched until poor Uncle Jimmy's death is actually proved."
Joan's blue-grey eyes were troubled.
"Hughie," she said, "is there any hope? I still like to think so."
Hughie shook his head. "Not much," he said. "In fact, none. It is known that he went with that crack-brained expedition of Hymack's up the Congo,—to study the Rubber Question on the spot,—and the last letter he sent home said that he was suffering from black-water fever, and it is also known that the expedition came back without him. And—all that was two years ago, Joey."