“True enough!” said Croyden, “but where is the man who is trustworthy—not to mention willing to take the risk, of being killed or tried for murder, for someone else’s benefit? They’re not many like you, Colin.”
A man, who was looking listlessly in a window just ahead, turned away. He bore an air of dejection, and his clothes, while well cut, were beginning to show hard usage and carelessness.
“Axtell!” Macloud observed—“and on his uppers!”
“There’s our man!” exclaimed Croyden. “He is down hard, a little money with a small divide, if successful, will get him. What do you say?”
“Nothing!” replied Macloud. “It’s up to you.”
Axtell saw them; he hesitated, whether to speak or to go on. Croyden solved the question.
“Hello! Axtell, what are you doing here?” he said, extending his hand.
Axtell grasped it, as a drowning man a straw.
“You’re kind to ask, Mr. Croyden! Mighty kind in one who lost so much through us.”
“You were not to blame—Royster’s responsible, and he’s gone——”