“I cannot say. Not long ago it was some hundreds, but by this time it is nearer thousands. Nothing grows so rapidly as a debt, my child—even,” added he, with an unctuous drop of his voice, “a debt of honour.”
“And will not your creditor wait?”
“My creditor has waited, but refuses to do so any longer. In a month from now, my child, your father and those he loves best will be paupers.”
“Is there no way of meeting it? None whatever?”
“I cannot pay; I shrink from borrowing. The trust funds in my charge are sacred—”
“Of course!” said she, astonished that he should name them in such a connection. “Is there nothing else?”
“My creditor is Robert Ratman—or as he calls himself, and possibly is, Roger Ingleton. As you know, he claims to be the elder brother of our Roger, and I—”
“Yes, yes,” said she; “Roger told me about that. He is your creditor?”
“He is. I got into his clutches in India, little guessing who he was, and he is crushing me now. There is but one way, and one only, of escaping him—and that way is, I fear, impossible, Rosalind.”
“What is it?” said she, with pale face, knowing what was to come.