Lord, what a mess! His last cent was invested; hers, too, no doubt. He hadn't even railroad fare North. Probably she hadn't either.
He had gambled and lost. There was scarcely a chance that he had not lost. And the same fearful odds were against her.
"The poor little thing!" he muttered, staring at[284] her tent. And after a moment he sprang to his feet and walked over to it. The flap was open; she sat inside on a camp-chair, her red head in her arms, doubled over in an attitude of tragic despair.
"Miss Sandys?"
She looked up hastily, the quick colour dyeing her pale cheeks, her long, black lashes glimmering with tears.
"Do you mind talking it over with me?" he asked.
"N-no."
"May I come in?"
"P-please."
He seated himself cross-legged on the threshold.