“Yes. I knew I was to blame. I knew it all along,” said Booms, taking every expression of regret as a personal castigation.
“It will be all over before any one can do a thing,” said Harker, getting up and pacing the room in his agitation. “Why doesn’t Horace come?”
As if in answer to the appeal, Horace at that moment opened the door.
“Why, Harker, old man!” he exclaimed with delight in his face and voice as he sprang towards his friend.
“Horrors, my poor dear boy,” said Harker, “don’t be glad to see me. I’ve bad news, and there’s no time to break it gently. It’s about Reginald. He’s in trouble—in prison. I’ll come with you to Liverpool this morning; there is a train in twenty minutes.”
Horace said nothing. He turned deadly pale and gazed for a moment half scared, half appealing, at his friend. Booms remembered something he had to do in another room, and went to the door.
“Do you mind getting a hansom?” said Harker.
The words roused Horace from his stupor.
“Mother,” he gasped, “she’s ill.”
“We shall be home again to-night most likely,” said Harker.