“Yes, and, moreover, before doing so he ruined us both by gambling. Elma, I cannot conceal the bitter truth from you, dear. I am ruined!”
The girl was too astounded to utter a word. Her countenance had blanched.
“But, dad!” she cried at last. “You can’t mean that you are actually ruined—you, the rich man that you are.”
“I thought I was until last night,” he replied huskily. “I have enemies, as well as friends. What man has not? The truth cannot be concealed from them very long, and then they will exult over my ruin,” he remarked very gravely.
“But, dad, what are we to do? Surely Sir Charles hasn’t actually ruined you?”
“Unfortunately he has, my child. I trusted him, but the curse of gambling was in his blood and he flung away my money as well as his own. But he is dead—he has paid the penalty of his folly, and left me to face our creditors.”
“And the future, dad?” asked the young girl, gazing aimlessly about her and not yet realising what ruin meant.
Purcell Sandys, the man whose credit was at that moment so high in Lombard Street—for the truth was not yet out—sighed and shook his head.
“I must face the music, my dear,” he said. “Face defeat, as others have done. Napoleon was compelled to bow to the inevitable; I must do so. Farncombe must be sold, and this house also. I must realise as much as possible to pay my creditors. But I cannot pay them all even though I sell everything.”
“And then?” asked his pretty daughter, so slim and girlish. “And then, dad?”