Ella and I soon became the greatest of friends and allies, and one afternoon, as we walked together at sundown, she gave me the reason of her warning in London.
"I hate to tell you, Mr. d'Escombe," she said, "but I am certain, from what I have seen in the few short visits and holidays that I've had with my father, that he does not make his living in a nice way. I'm sure that he plays cards a lot, and I simply hate the men he often plays with; and yet" and she hesitated.
"Yet—what?" I inquired anxiously. Her admissions made me feel most anxious, and, at the same time, curious.
"And yet sometimes he plays with quite young men—almost boys—and I'm afraid—well, Mr. d'Escombe—you know."
"Yes; I know what you mean, Miss Ella. You think that he persuades them to play, and wins their money, eh?"
"Yes, yes—but not unfairly. I can't believe that father would ever do anything so really horrid."
"Of course not. Miss Ella," I replied, feeling at the same time that my eyes were opened, and that I had cast in my lot with one of those genteel social vampires so common in the big
