"I'd advise you not to sell outright, madam—that's my advice to you as a friend," the broker's voice announced in a monotone. I looked up a moment—the man's back was turned; (wherefore I have thought more kindly of brokers ever since). "Your best way will be to sell a certain amount—and retain an interest; an interest, Mrs. Laird. They're going ahead to develop the mine—and then you're sure of both, Mrs. Laird. And I—I congratulate you, madam."
I fear my response was very scant, if indeed any came at all. At any rate, Mr. Bradwin withdrew a minute or two later, announcing his purpose to return the following day.
But it could not have been more than a minute or two after his departure when we heard the footfall of some one ascending the steps to the door. "He must be coming back," I said; "I suppose he's forgotten something."
"I don't think it's a man's step," said Gordon; "it's a boy, if I'm not mistaken."
His surmise was correct. A boy it was, and a very agitated and urgent boy at that. He was ragged too.
"I want you to come with me," the lad broke out as soon as he was admitted, fixing his earnest gaze on Gordon. "I was at Bethany Sunday-school last Sunday—and I know you—and I want you to come home with me quick," twirling his battered hat in his hand as he spoke.
"What's your name, my boy?" asked Gordon, moving over to him.
"It's Tim—Tim Rayfield—an' we live on Finner's Flats," naming the most notorious section of the city, part of it bordering on Gordon's parish.
"Do you always attend Bethany, Tim?" asked Gordon, smiling down at the desperately earnest face.
"No, sir, wasn't there only once," answered the boy; "but I learned a lot—an' won't you come, sir? There ain't no time to lose. My father's dyin', sir—an' I want you to get him in."