"And the wire I sent to dad--"

"You can pay for it if you want to! You don't get a cent out of me."

Conniston took one stride to him, putting a heavy hand upon Hapgood's
narrow shoulder.

"You infernal little shrimp!" he cried, hoarsely. "If we weren't
guests here I'd take a holy glee in slapping your face! By the Lord,
I've a mind to do it anyhow!"

Hapgood jerked back, his arm lifted to shelter his face. And
Conniston, with a short laugh, dropped his hand to his side. As he did
so he saw Miss Crawford was coming toward them through the yard from
the corner of the house. A middle-aged man, heavy and broad-shouldered
and white-haired, was with her. He turned to meet her.

"Mr. Conniston," she was saying, "this is my father. And, papa, this
is Mr. Hapgood."

Mr. Crawford came up the steps, giving his hand in a hearty grip to
the two men who came forward to meet him, his voice, deep and grave,
assuring them that he was glad that they had stayed over at his home.
His face was stern, grave like his voice, clean-shaven, and handsome
in a way of manly, independent strength.

"Argyl tells me," he said, to Conniston, as they all sat down, "that
you are expecting some money by wire. You are leaving us, then, right
away?"