The architect’s face was of an unwholesome white, and Hey spat. He saw that Hullah feared he was going to strike him.
“She’s been ill, Tom, and must be got away to the Mediterranean. Peterson’s sucking me dry; he thinks I’m afraid of him. You used to be fond of her, Tom.”
All at once Private Hey’s wrath gave place to utter wretchedness, and he began to stride up and down the yard. Tears rose into his eyes, and presently rolled unchecked down his cheeks. He approached Hullah, and said in a quavering voice: “A fortnight ago—was that?”
“A boy,” Hullah murmured.
“It’s a mercy he’s dead, if he’d ha’ been like you,” the cherub sobbed.
And then he forgot all about Hullah. He forgot everything except that little Mollie Westwood had been through an agony, was ill, must be got away, and that he might help her. An ineffable, soft thrill stirred at his heart; he, wicked Tom Hey, might help her. And presently he stood before Hullah again, looking wistfully at him.
“You ain’t lying, Hullah?”
“Oh, Tom!”
“And suppose—suppose I was to think Peterson’s as big a thief as you, and treat him as such—treat him as such, if he dares to speak to me; you understand, Hullah?”
“Don’t put it that way, Tom ... then I may take it, Tom——?”