He sat the old man in the big arm-chair. Everard opened his eyes and stared like an imbecile at the youth.
“Where’s my Gabby? Who the ’ell are you?” moaned the ex-sailor.
“I’m Hillary, Gabrielle’s friend. I’m teaching her to play the violin; it will be a great help to her. She can make money by teaching, and be able to help you too,” blurted forth the apprentice in that inspiration that comes to lovers who have rehearsed a thousand excuses for suddenly appearing before a prospective father-in-law.
Old Everard was too far gone with rum and grief to be interested in the commercial side of a prospective son-in-law.
“You’re ’Illary! Violin! Play musick! You b—— villainous scoundrel! What have you done with ’er?” yelled the old man, as he struggled to his feet, a terribly vicious look in his eyes.
“Done with who? Where’s Gabrielle?” Hillary shouted out in a voice that somehow managed to tell the old man that the youth before him thought that he too had a right to know where Gabrielle was.
In a moment the ex-sailor’s mad passion subsided. He leaned forward and stared into Hillary’s eyes and saw the despair, the appeal, the light of sincerity and truth, everything that he had not seen in Koo Macka’s eyes. In a moment the old man relented.
“Ain’t yer seen ’er, kid? She’s gone! Bolted with Macka, the Rajah! Find ’er, boy, find ’er for me. You can ’ave her, she’s my Gabby!” wailed the despairing father.
Hillary’s heart nearly stopped beating. He couldn’t sum up courage enough to ask the old man to explain what he meant. He dreaded to hear something, he knew not what. Then the old man continued:
“God forgive me for thinking ill of you. He sent you ’ere ter-night to comfort ’er ole father.”