Bartlett lying on a wide bed in the centre of the room, and the Chinese servant was fanning him. The sufferer looked years older than when Gilbert had seen him before.
"So it is you, Pennington?" said Amos Bartlett, in a strangely unnatural voice. "I am glad to see you. I have been wanting to talk over that Importing Company's affair with you. We have millions at stake, and—"
"Amos, please do not speak of that now," interposed Mrs. Bartlett, soothingly. "I am sure Lieutenant Pennington will wait until you are better."
"Yes; but, Viola, Ramsey Polk is a black-hearted swindler. He would ruin us all, sweep away our millions, and leave us beggars. And the fire, too! We shall be penniless, starving in the streets! Pennington can save us. I have thought it all over. He must fight a duel with Polk; and, being a soldier, he can easily run his man through. And then—ah, then we will be saved! Is it not an easy plan, Pennington?" And the sufferer turned his white and haggard face to the young Southerner.
Gilbert started, for he had not anticipated such a turn of affairs. Clearly, Amos Bartlett was out of
