The sobs now thickened into a cry, and, with streaming eyes, she picked up the puny child and declared she was going to bed.  To this proposal the moody man emphatically assented.  But as Mrs. Fletcher passed near her husband, the child reached out its slender arms and caught hold of him by his cravat, screaming, “Papa! papa!  I stay, papa!”

“Let go!” roughly exclaimed the amiable father.  But she held the tighter, and shouted, “Papa! my papa!”

What sudden freak overcame his anger probably not even Fletcher himself could tell.  But, turning towards his wife, who was supporting the child, whose little fingers still held him fast, his face cleared instantly, and, with a sudden movement, he drew the surprised and delighted woman down upon his knee, and loaded her with every form of childish endearment.  Her tears and sorrows vanished together, like the dew.

“Little duck,” said he, “if I were alone, I shouldn’t care for any more money.  I know I can always take care of myself.  But for your sake I want to be independent,—­rich, if you please.  I want to be free.  I want to meet that wily, smooth, plausible, damned, respectable villain face to face, and with as much money as he.”

His eyes danced with a furious light and motion, and the fringy moustache trembled over his thin and sensitive mouth.  But in a moment he repented the outbreak; for his wife’s face blanched then, and the tears leaped from her eyes.

“Oh, John,” she exclaimed, “what is this awful secret?  I know that something is killing you.  You mutter in sleep; you are sullen at times; and then you break out in this dreadful way.”

Fletcher meditated.  “I can’t tell her; ’twould kill her, and not do any good either.  No, one good streak of luck will set me up where I can defy him.  I’ll grin and bear it.”

“What is it, John?  Tell your poor little wife!”

“Oh, nothing, my dear.  I do some business for Sandford, who is apt to be domineering,—­that’s all.  To-day he provoked me, and when I am mad it does me good to swear; it’s as natural as lightning out of a black cloud.”

“It may do you good to swear, John; but it makes the cold chills run over me.  Why do you have anything to do with anybody that treats you so?  You are so changed from what you were!  Oh, John, something is wrong, I know.  Your face looks sharp and inquiring.  You are thin and uneasy.  There’s a wrinkle in your cheek, that used to be as smooth as a girl’s.”

She patted his face softly, as it rested on her shoulder; but he made no reply save by an absent, half-audible whistle.

“You don’t answer me, John, dear!”

“I’ve nothing especial to say, doxy,—­only that I will wind up with Sandford as soon as we finish the business in hand.”

“The business in hand?  Has he anything to do with Foggarty, Danforth, and Dot?”

Fletcher was not skilful under cross-examination.  So he simply answered, “No,” and then stopping her mouth with kisses, promised to explain the matter another day.