"You are helping—now?" he demanded incredulously.
The millionaire smiled.
"Maybe you would not call it by that name." He shook his head, and rose heavily from his chair. "Let that pass," he said, with a quick, keen glance into the boy's face. "I must get back to Deep Willows. I had no right to spend all this time away. Mrs. Hendrie is ill—seriously ill, I fear. Your Phyllis is with her, serving her for friendship's sake. She does not receive even a market value for her toil. The price of her service is inestimable."
"Mon—Mrs. Hendrie is—ill?"
Frank's face blanched. A great trouble crept into his eyes. Hendrie noted the expression closely.
"Yes," he said simply. "She is to become a—mother. But she is ill—and—ah, well, maybe she'll pull through. It is in the hands of Providence." He sighed with genuine trouble.
"You say—Phyllis—is with her?"
"Why, yes. She has been with us for months."
"Has Mon—Mrs. Hendrie been ill—so long?"
Frank's voice was almost pleading.