CHAPTER XLVIII.UP AGAINST IT.
A few minutes later, the front-door bell rang again, and this time the salver which the butler presented to his supposed employer bore the card of Harold Lumsden.
Gordon nodded impassively. “Very well,” he said.
“I only hope he’ll prove worth the trouble,” he told himself, as the butler left the room. “He’s a spendthrift, of course. Money turns to water and runs through his fingers, no matter how fast it comes in. He’s just back from London, however, and I hardly think he has already squandered everything he picked up there.”
Then the door opened, and a tragic figure entered. The caller’s face was haggard, his eyes wild, his hair disordered. Even his clothing seemed carelessly worn and ill-fitting, though Lumsden had always been considered one of the best-
