As he spoke his fingers pressed the button of the electric bell.
“Foster, my private ledger.”
The secretary brought the book, and then disappeared in silence.
“You did me a good turn—it’s quite true—and on no less than six occasions you have come to me for assistance. The last time I told you that it should end—have a cigar?”
Braithwaite rose to his feet and his body swayed a little.
“Look at that. It’s a pawn-ticket for my wife’s wedding ring,” he said hoarsely.
“I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m really busy. I am sorry for you but I can do nothing. You should have understood that the last hundred pounds was the end of my assistance. I told you so, and I am a man of my word. Good-morning.”
“Gaunt, remember that we were boys together. You with your millions—and I starving. You can’t refuse me. Only a sovereign. It will buy food. Ten shillings—even a shilling will get us bread.”
“Not one penny.”
“Curse you!” Braithwaite cried hysterically.