But, instinctively, his eyes sought the girl's.
“What—what do you mean?” she stammered, simultaneously with her father's “Mr. Wade! Or—Smith! Will you kindly …”
“Explain?” sneered Mr. Preserved Higgins. “There ain't such a bloomin' lot to explain. I tell you 'e's been kicked out of 'is club and drummed out of 'is regiment and broken the 'eart of 'is dotin' father, the Earl of Dealle, not to mention my own 'eart, because 'e 'as cheated at cards!”
“Cheated whom?”
“Me!”
“Oh,” said the girl, “then it is a question of personal malice?”
“Call it wot you will, lydy. But it's the truth. Arsk 'is nibs 'imself if you don't believe me!”
And, to the girl's silent question—it was all in her eyes, the helpless, pitiful clasping of her narrow hands—Hector inclined his head and walked to the door. On the threshold he turned. He caught the girl's eye—it was moist with tears and a terrible, aching appeal.
Then words came to her.
“Is it true?” she asked.
“Yes,” Hector replied, steadily, and left the room, Mr. Preserved Higgins following.
Like a man in a dream, he walked downstairs, out of the hotel and into the street that stretched from the Embankment to the dim outlines of Parliament in a gentle curve of lights, when, at the corner, he was stopped by the Cockney millionaire.
“Wade,” said the latter, “now that you see that
