THE GIRL WHO CRIED
"You had better see her," said his host suddenly.
Crawley shook his head.
"A parent's feelings," he protested, "have a sense of decency, Reginald or Horace or Hector; I always forget your London name. No," he said, "I won't accept your suggestion, but I have got a proposition to make to you, and it concerns a certain relative of John Minute—a nice, young fellow who will one day secure the old man's swag."
"Will he?" said the other between his teeth.
They sat for two hours discussing the proposition, and then Crawley rose to leave.
"I leave my final jar for the last," he said pleasantly. He had finished the contents of the flask, and was in a very amiable frame of mind.
"You are in some danger, my young friend, and I, your guardian angel, have discovered it. You have a valet at one of your numerous addresses."
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