DeVoe opened his eyes in amazement. "Oh, see here now, you couldn't spend it all! Why, she had even more than you!"
"It's all gone—hers and mine."
"Good Lord!"
"Yes. I was always extravagant, but I've been speculating lately. I thought I'd get a sensation either way the market went, but I was disappointed. I dare say I have exhausted my capabilities for excitement. It's a long story, and I won't bore you with it, but, to be exact, all I have left is the town house and the farm and the place in Virginia. There isn't enough income, however, to keep any one of them going."
"Well, well! You have been stepping along. Why, it's inconceivable!" DeVoe stirred uneasily in his chair. The calm indifference of this broad-shouldered, immaculate fellow amazed him. He could not tell whether it was genuine or assumed, and in either event he was sorry he had come, for he did not like to hear tales of misfortune. Butler Murray, the millionaire, was a good man to know, but—
"I sent for you because I need—"
"See here, Butler," the younger man broke in, abruptly, "you know I can't lend. I'm borrowing myself. In fact, I was going to make a touch on you."
"Oh, I don't want your money; I want your help. I think, perhaps, I'm entitled to it, eh?"
Henry flushed a trifle. "You're welcome to that at all times, of course, and if I had a bank-roll, I'd split it with you, but I just can't seem to get started."
"Suppose you had twenty-five thousand dollars, cash; would that help?"