It was a weak argument to bring forward, but still he felt it
was the only one that he could make. It was quite dark when he
had finished, and while sitting in the twilight, looking dreamily at
the sheets scattered all over his desk, he heard a knock at the door,
and his daughter's voice asking if he was coming to dinner. All day
long he had closed his door against everyone, but now his task being
ended, he collected all the closely-written sheets together, placed
them in a drawer of his escritoire, which he locked, and then opened
the door.
"Dear papa," cried Madge, as she entered rapidly, and threw her arms
around his neck, "what have you been doing here all day by yourself?"
"Writing," returned her father laconically, as he gently removed her
arms.
"Why, I thought you were ill," she answered, looking at him
apprehensively.
"No, dear," he replied, quietly. "Not ill, but worried."
"I knew that dreadful man who came last night had told you something to
worry you. Who is he?"
"Oh! a friend of mine," answered Frettlby, with hesitation.
"What--Roger Moreland?"
Her father started.
"How do you know it was Roger Moreland?"
"Oh! Brian recognised him as he went out."
Mark Frettlby hesitated for a few moments, and then busied himself with
the papers on his desk, as he replied in a low voice--
"You are right--it was Roger Moreland--he is very hard up, and as he
was a friend of poor Whyte's, he asked me to assist him, which I did.
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