“This exciting news,” said she, “drove it out of my head for the moment. Boys, I am very sorry to say I had a note to-day stating that Mr Richmond was taken ill while in France, and is dead. He was one of our few old friends, and it is a very sad blow.”
She was right. The Crudens never stood in greater need of a wise friend than they did now.
Chapter Eleven.
Reginald takes his Fate into his own Hands.
The next day Reginald wrote and accepted the invitation of the directors of the Select Agency Corporation. He flattered himself he was acting deliberately, and after fully weighing the pros and cons of the question. True, he still knew very little about his new duties, and had yet to make the acquaintance of the Bishop of S— and the other directors. But, on the other hand, he had seen Mr Medlock, and heard what he had to say, and was quite satisfied in his own mind that everything was all right. And, greatest argument of all, he had no other place to go to, and £150 a year was a salary not to be thrown away when put into one’s hands.
Still, he felt a trifle uncomfortable about the necessity of going to Liverpool and breaking up the old home. Of course, he could not help himself, and Horace had no right to insinuate otherwise. All the same, it was a pity, and if there had not been the compensating certainty of being able to send up regular contributions to the family purse, which would help his mother to not a few comforts hitherto denied, he would have been more troubled still about it.
“What will you do about the £50?” said Horace next day, forcing himself to appear interested in what he inwardly disapproved.
“Oh,” said Reginald, “I’d intended to ask Richmond to lend it me. It’s not exactly a loan either; it would be the same as his investing in the company in my name. The money would be safe, and he’d get his interest into the bargain. But of course I can’t go to him now.”