“Not to any extent. Harold can't touch his money any more than I; besides, Harold is not to know,” and Ted spoke decidedly, as though in that direction his mind was fully made up, and he needed advice from no one.
“Aren't there men up in London who make a business of lending money?” for Donald hadn't knocked about the world without gaining some knowledge of men and affairs.
“Yes, there are, but I want to keep this thing just as quiet as possible. I do wish I had some friend to turn to.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, looking Ted squarely in the face, “it's an awful pity about you; there is no sense at all in your going on the way you have. When a fellow has a home and friends and money, there isn't any excuse for that sort of thing. Seems to me it would be so easy then to keep straight.”
Ted winced a little under Donald's frankness, knowing all that lay beneath it. It had sometimes been very difficult for the boy there before him, to whom home and money had been always lacking, and friends as well until within these last few weeks, to live up to the best that he knew. No boy puts to sea, as Donald had done, without coming face to face with some sore temptations, but his whole look and bearing showed how manfully he had resisted them, and the earnest honesty of his eyes preached a sermon as they met Ted's.
“It is an awful pity,” said Ted, echoing Donald's words, and hating his own record more than any one else could hate it; “but all that is left me is to try and mend matters. The only comfort is that I've come to my senses at last. A great many never do, you know.”
“Mr. Harris,” said Donald, who had been listening to Ted and doing his own thinking at one and the same time, “there was an Englishman came over on the steamer with us, who grew to be great friends with Marie-Celeste, and Marie-Celeste told me all about him one of those afternoons when I was too weak to do anything but lie in my berth, and she tried to entertain me. She said he was a bachelor, and rich as could be, and she thought the best thing that could happen to him would be to do somebody a good turn with his money. If you feel that you want to keep this matter sort of quiet, just between gentleman and gentleman (which was a phrase Donald had heard Mr. Harris use, and was glad to be able to appropriate), why don't you go up to London and hunt him up? He lives at one of the big clubs. You could easily find him. His name was Belden.”
At this Ted gave a start of surprise, as did Miss Dorothy Allyn when Marie-Celeste made the same announcement the day of their talk in St. George's Chapel. And then Ted asked, as had she: “Are you sure it was Belden? You see, Donald,” he continued, “I've an old bachelor uncle whose name is Selden—my mother's brother—and who answers to your description to a dot—a surly old customer, who would do little enough for me, or any one else, I imagine.”
“No; it was Belden sure. Everybody called him Mr. Belden, and it was so on the passenger list; I've got one in my chest upstairs; I'll bring it, and you can see for yourself.”
“Donald,” said Ted, when, the list having been produced, he felt that the balance of evidence was not in favor of Mr. Belden and Mr. Selden being one and the same, “that is a happy thought of yours, and up to London I will go.”