But the boy was not reassured; in fact, he had become more anxious than ever.  Not only did the chill continue, but the lump in his throat grew larger every minute.

“But, Uncle George—­you told me you borrowed the money to pay those bills my father sent me.  And will you now have to pay that back as well?” He did not ask of whom he had borrowed it, nor on what security, nor would either Pawson or his uncle have told him, that being a confidential matter.

“Well, that depends, Harry; but we won’t have to pay it right away, which is one comfort.  And then again, I can go back to the law.  I have yet to make my maiden speech before a jury, but I can do it.  Think of it!—­everybody in tears, the judge mopping his eyes—­court-room breathless.  Oh, you just wait until your old uncle gets on his feet before a bench and jury.  Come along, old fellow—­let us go up into the house.”  Then in a serious tone—­his back to Harry—­“Pawson, please bring the full accounts with you in the morning, and now let me thank you for your courtesy.  You have been extremely civil, sir, and I appreciate it most highly.”

When they had reached the front walk and were about to climb the immaculate steps, St. George, still determined to divert the boy’s thoughts from his own financial straits, said with a laugh: 

“Todd told you, of course, about your father paying me a visit this morning, did he not?”

“Oh, yes!—­a most extraordinary account.  You must have enjoyed it,” replied Harry, trying to fall into his uncle’s mood, his heart growing heavier every moment.  “What did he want?”

One of St. George’s heat-lightning smiles played over his face:  “He wanted two things.  He first wanted you, and then he wanted a receipt for a month’s board—­your board, remember!  He went away without either.”

A new perspective suddenly opened up in Harry’s mind; one that had a gleam of sunshine athwart it.

“But, Uncle George!” he burst out—­“don’t forget that my father owes you all the money you paid for me!  That, of course, will eventually come back to you.”  This came in a tone of great relief, as if the money was already in his hand.

St. George’s face hardened:  “None of it will come back to me,” he rejoined in a positive tone.  “He doesn’t owe me one single penny and he never will.  That money he owes to you.  Whatever you may happen to owe me can wait until you are able to pay it.  And now while I am talking about it, there is another thing your father owes you, and that is an humble apology, and that he will pay one of these days in tears and agony.  You are neither a beggar nor a cringing dog, and you never will be so long as I can help it!” He stopped, rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and with a quiver in his voice added: 

“Your hand, my son.  Short commons after this, may be, but we will make the fight together.”

When the two passed through the front door and stepped into the dining-room they found it filled with gentlemen—­friends who had heard of the crash and who had come either to extend their sympathy or offer their bank accounts.  They had heard of the catastrophe at the club and had instantly left their seats and walked across the park in a body.