The monetary matters of Mr. Hawke Holcroft were approaching a species of crisis now, and he was daily getting orange-coloured missives and messages 'wired' in mysterious terms from jockeys, bookmakers, and other horsey folks that added to his tribulation, for things seemed to be going wrong with him, and he felt that now or never must he attempt to secure the heiress, who, he thought, was only waiting to be carried off.
Even loo and écarté in the evening with such pigeon-like players as Sir Paget were beginning to fail as resources.
'Odd fellow in his way,' remarked the baronet to Cameron. 'A trifle too lucky at cards for my taste.'
'Or mine,' said Cameron, grimly.
'Turns up the king too often after the early hours of the morning.'
Yet when night came again and the small hours of the morning, the somewhat simple M.P. for Slough-cum-Sloggit was again a heavy loser to Holcroft.
'He has some secret about him,' said the former.
'Most men have some secret which they generally keep to themselves,' replied Cameron.
'Secrets certainly, which they seldom tell to their wives or sweethearts,' said the baronet, laughing.
We have said that Olive had a secret thought that might prove somewhat fatal to Allan's success with her, a mistaken idea that Holcroft loved her—loved her for herself—and despite the tenor of her father's will; while Allan might love her because he knew the value of its tenor to himself.