The man raised himself on his elbow and gazed at his visitor open-mouthed.
"You mean this!" he cried thickly. "Say it again,--quick! You mean it!"
"Certainly," Matravers answered. "I will do what I can."
John Drage did not doubt his good fortune for a moment. No one ever looked into Matravers' face and failed to believe him.
"I--I'll thank you some day," he murmured. "You've done me up! Will you--shake hands?"
He held out a thin white hand. Matravers took it between his own.
In a few moments they were absorbed in figures and explanations. Finally the book was passed over to Matravers' keeping.
"I will see what I can do," he said quietly. "Some of these accounts should certainly be recovered. I will come down and let you know how I have got on."
[Illustration: "You mean this!" he cried thickly. "Say it again--quick!"]
"If you would! If you don't mind! And, I wonder,--do you take a morning paper? If so, will you bring it when you've done with it, or an old one will do? I can't read anything but newspapers; and lately I haven't dared to spend a penny,--because of Freddy, you know! It's so cursed lonely!"
"I will come, and I will bring you something to read," Matravers promised. "I must go now!"
"Good-by," he said. "You're a good man! I wish I'd been like you. It's an odd thing for me to say, but--God bless you, sir."
Matravers stood on the doorstep with his watch in his hand. It was half-past three. There was just time to catch the four-thirty from Waterloo! For a moment the little street faded away from before his eyes! He saw himself at his journey's end! Berenice was there to meet him! A breath of the country came to him on the breeze--a breath of sweet-smelling flowers, and fresh moorland air, and the low murmur of the blue sea. Yes, there was Berenice, with her dark hair blowing in the wind, and that look of passionate peace in her pale, tired face! Her arms were open, wide open! She had been weary so long! The struggle had been so hard! and he, too, was weary----
He started! He was still on the doorstep! Freddy was drumming on the pane, and behind, there was a man lying on the couch, with his face buried in his hands. He waved his hand and descended the steps firmly.
"Back to my rooms, 147, Piccadilly," he told the cabman. "I shall not be going away to-day."