“He’s like his poor father in some things,” she was saying, as she lifted a batch of small biscuits out of the oven and moved towards the ice-box with them. “He never squealed about his misfortune to me. Not one letter did I get asking for help. He’s proud, is Hervey. And now I don’t know, I’m sure.”
She paused with her hand on the open door of the refrigerator and looked back into the man’s face.
“Did he tell you any details of his failure? What was responsible for it?” Iredale asked, poising his glass on one of the unyielding arms of his chair.
“No, that he didn’t, not even that,” in a tone of pride. “He just said he’d failed. That he was ‘broke.’ He’s too knocked up with travelling––he’s come from Winnipeg right here––or you should hear it from his own lips. He never blamed no one.”
“Ah––and you are going to help him, Mrs. Malling. What are you going to do?”
“That’s where I’m fixed some. Money he can have––all he wants.”
Iredale shook his head gravely.
“Bad policy, Mrs. Malling––until you know all the facts.”
“What, my own flesh and blood, too? Well, there–––”