Queer sounds were coming from the sitting-room--sounds of a
man's agitated voice, broken by sobs. Undeterred by any sense of
delicacy, Quin pushed open the door and bolted in.
Mr. Martel was sitting in the arm-chair in an attitude _King Lear_ might
have envied. Every line of his face and figure suggested unmitigated
tragedy. Even the tender ministrations of Eleanor Bartlett who knelt
beside him, failed to console him or to stem the tide of his
lamentations.
"What's the matter?" cried Quin in alarm. "What has happened?"
Papa Claude, resting one expressive hand on Eleanor's head, extended the
other to Quin.
"Come in, my boy, come in," he said brokenly. "You are one of us: nothing
shall be kept from you in this hour of great affliction. I am ruined,
Quinby--utterly, irrevocably ruined!"
"But how? What's happened?"
"It's grandmother!" exclaimed Eleanor, struggling to her feet and
speaking with dramatic indignation. "She's written him a letter I'll
never forgive--never! I don't care if the money _is_ due me. I don't
want it. I won't have it! What is six thousand dollars to me if it turns
Papa Claude out in the street?"
"But here--hold on a minute!" said Quin.
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