The other dropped his hands with a cry, bounding to his feet.
“I—beg your pardon, sir. You—I——”
Anthony soothed him. “Steady, man, steady. Take your time. Lots of it.”
Belford looked up at him, tried to speak, failed, and hung his head again.
“Just now,” Anthony said, “you told me something about being desperate. What is it? Money?”
Belford nodded. “You’re right, sir,” he muttered. “It’s—it’s my wife, sir. Been very ill, she has. And is still. I was goin’ to ask the master to ’elp me; but when it come to the point, I couldn’t. That’s why I was after pinchin’, sir. I would ’ave asked ’im, I would reely, sir; but I knew he’d ask Miss Hoode about it, and that’d ’ave made it ’opeless. You see, sir, the missus was in service here before we was married—and, well, sir, she ’ad—’ad to leave in a nurry. And through me! You understand, sir—our nipper——” He broke off, looking up appealingly. “We’re very fond of each other, sir,” he finished. “And it’s ’ard to see ’er so ill like!”
“How much d’you want?” Anthony felt for his note-case. “Here, you’d better have twenty now. And I’ll fix you up properly to-morrow. Now, for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!” he added sharply.
For Belford’s shrivelled, sharp-featured little face was working in a way which was not good to see. Gratitude is sometimes more terrible to watch than baser emotions.
Anthony thrust the notes into one limp hand and beat hurried retreat.
Belford stood where he was left. His lips moved soundlessly. The banknotes in his hand crackled as the stubby fingers clenched upon them. Presently he raised his head and looked with blurred vision along the path through the trees.