It's the shame to her. Oh, what a cursed ass and
fool--and thief, I've been!"
"Thief-thief?"
Flood Rawley dropped the flaming match with which he was about to light a
cheroot, and stood staring, his dark-blue eyes growing wider, his worn,
handsome face becoming drawn, as swift conviction mastered him. He felt
that the black words which had fallen from his friend's lips--from the
lips of Diana Welldon's brother--were the truth. He looked at the plump
face, the full amiable eyes, now misty with fright, at the characterless
hand nervously feeling the golden moustache, at the well-fed, inert body;
and he knew that whatever the trouble or the peril, Dan Welldon could not
surmount it alone.
"What is it?" Rawley asked rather sharply, his fingers running through
his slightly grizzled, black hair, but not excitedly, for he wanted no
scenes; and if this thing could hurt Di Welldon, and action was
necessary, he must remain cool. What she was to him, Heaven and he only
knew; what she had done for him, perhaps neither understood fully as yet.
"What is it--quick?" he added, and his words were like a sharp grip upon
Dan Welldon's shoulder. "Racing--cards?"
Dan nodded. "Yes, over at Askatoon; five hundred on Jibway, the
favourite--he fell at the last fence; five hundred at poker with Nick
Fison; and a thousand in land speculation at Edmonton, on margin.
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