tired."

"That doesn't relieve his creditors."

"No, but it relieves Klawber."

Grandcourt said: "You always view things from that side, don't you?"

"What side?"

"That of personal convenience."

"Yes. Why not?"

"I don't know. Where is it landing you?"

"I haven't gone into that very thoroughly." There was a trace of
irritation in Dysart's voice; he passed one hand over his forehead; it
was icy, and the hair on it damp. "What the devil do you want of me,
anyway?" he asked.

"Nothing.... I have never wanted anything of you, have I?"

Dysart walked the width of the room, then the length of it, then came
and stood by the table, resting on it with one thin hand, in which his
damp handkerchief was crushed to a wad.

"_What_ is it you've got to say, Delancy? Is it about that loan?"

"No. Have you heard a word out of me about it?"

"You've been devilish glum. Good God, I don't blame you; I ought not to
have touched it; I must have been crazy to let you try to help me----"

"It was my affair. What I choose to do concerns myself," said
Grandcourt, his heavy, troubled face turning redder. "And, Jack, I
understand that my father is making things disagreeable for you. I've
told him not to; and you mustn't let it worry you, because what I had
was my own and what I did with it my own business."

"Anyway," observed Dysart, after a moment's reflection, "your family is
wealthy."

A darker flush stained Grandcourt's face; and Dysart's misinterpretation
of his philosophy almost stung him into fierce retort; but as his heavy
lips unclosed in anger, his eyes fell on Dysart's ravaged face, and he
sat silent, his personal feelings merged in an evergrowing anxiety.

"Why do you cough like that, Jack?" he demanded after a paroxysm had
shaken the other into an armchair, where he lay sweating and panting:

"It's a cold," Dysart managed to say; "been hanging on for a month."

"Three months," said Grandcourt tersely. "Why don't you take care of
it?"

There was a silence; nothing more was said about the cold; and presently
Grandcourt drew a letter from his pocket and handed it silently to
Dysart. It was in Rosalie's handwriting, dated two months before, and
directed to Dysart at Baltimore. The post-office authorities had marked
it, "No address," and had returned it a few days since to the sender.

These details Dysart noticed on the envelope and the heading of the
first page; he glanced over a line or two, lowered the le