He rose from his chair, with a brief laugh that did not sound
very natural.
"I think I know when I've had enough," he said. "Good-night!" And
"Good-night!" came from one and all of them--though there was an ominous
pause until the door was shut behind him.
He went down below, to the supper-room, which was all deserted now; he
drew in a chair to a small writing-table and took a sheet of note-paper.
On it he scrawled, with rather a feverish hand:
"As I understand it, I owe you L800 on this evening, with L300 from
yesterday--L1100 in all. I will try to let you have it to-morrow.
L.M."--and that he put in an envelope, which he addressed to "Percival
Miles, Esq.," and sent up-stairs by one of the servants. Then he went
and got his coat and hat, and left. It was raining hard, and there was a
blustering wind, but he called no hansom; the wet and cold seemed
grateful to him, for he was hot and excited. And then, somewhat blindly,
and bare-throated, he passed through the streaming thoroughfares--caring
little how long it took him to reach Piccadilly.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A MEMORABLE DAY.
"...But do you know, dear Maurice, that you propose marrying a
beggar; and, more than that, a most unabashed beggar, as you will
be saying to yourself presently? The fact is, immediately after you
left this afternoon, the post brought me a letter from Sister
Alexandra, who tells me that two of her small children, suffering
from hip-disease, must be sent home, for the doctors say they are
getting no better, and the beds in the ward are wanted.
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