The fierce earnestness of his answer satisfied even me. “What do you think I am?” he demanded. “Investment be hanged! It's my name as an honest man that I care about. Once let me get that back again and I'll face the poorhouse. Yes, and I'll tell Nellie the truth, all except that I was a thief; I can't tell her that. But I will tell her that I haven't got a cent except my salary. Then if she wants to give me up, all right. I'll bear it as best I can. Or, if she doesn't, and I lose my job here, I'll get another one somewhere else; I'll work at anything. She and I can wait and . . . But what is the use of talking like this? I've been over every inch of the ground a thousand times. There ain't a ray of light anywhere. The examiner will be here, the bonds will be missing, and I—I'll be in jail, or in hell, one or the other.”
“No, you won't,” I said, firmly.
“I won't! Why not?”
“Because there IS a ray of light. More than a ray. George, you go home and go to bed. To-morrow morning I may have news for you, good news.”
The blood rushed to his face. He seized the arm of his chair.
“Good news!” he gasped. “Good news for ME! Ros—Ros, for the Lord's sake, what do you mean? You don't mean you see a way to—”
“Never mind what I mean. But I should like to know what you mean by not coming to me before? What are friends for, if not to help each other? Who told you that I was dead broke?”
“You? Why, you ain't got . . . Have you? Ros Paine, you ain't got thirty-five hundred to spare. Why, you told me yourself—”
“Shut up! Get up from that chair and come with me. Yes, you; and now, this minute. Give me that thing you've got in the drawer there. No, I'll take it myself. You ought to be ashamed of its being there, George. I am ashamed of you, and, if I thought you really meant to use it, I should be still more ashamed. Come! don't keep me waiting.”
“But—but Ros—”