"The night I caught you trespassing you declared to me that you wanted to help the girl—to do something for her."
"Well—and I didn't succeed. What then?" Gilbert glanced up at him with an impatient frown.
"Very strange that it should happen that within a matter of days of that time her father—penniless ne'er-do-well—should suddenly come into money—eh?"
"A mere curious coincidence," responded the other quietly. "You'll excuse me?" He indicated the letter he held, and Simon Quarle nodded.
Gilbert ripped open the envelope, letting it fall to the floor as he unfolded the letter. Mr. Simon Quarle stooped forward politely and picked up the envelope; let his eyes glance across it for a moment as he laid it carefully on the desk. Then he sat with his hands on his knees, and with his head thrust forward, looking out of half-closed eyes at the man who was reading the letter.
The letter was from Bessie. It was a grateful, passionate, almost childish thing—written to a friend who would understand her great new happiness; and as he read it the man's face relaxed into a smile, and his heart softened. After all, the cost was nothing, as compared with this fine fruit; the game might go on for some time longer at least. She was a child, with the heart and mind of a child unspoiled; and it had been strangely given to him to have the power of bringing her into a world where for the first time she tasted joy—where for the first time she appeared to be radiantly happy. Yes—the cost was nothing.
His musings were cut short by the dry, hard voice of Simon Quarle. "So she writes to you?" he said.
Gilbert looked round at him, visibly annoyed. "How do you know that?" he demanded.
Simon Quarle pointed a finger at the envelope he had placed on the desk. "I know the writing," he replied. "The weekly bills used to be made out by her; I've got dozens of 'em. Well—there's nothing to be offended about; how's she getting on?"
There was a curious note of wistfulness—almost a note of jealousy in the man's tones; he seemed to rage at the thought that this other man could have a letter from her that brought a softening smile to his face, whilst he—that older friend Simon Quarle—sat there empty-handed. The world was a bitter place just then, and he resented its bitterness more than usual.