That cuts me clean out of the game. What was the
matter with the bank? The manager?"
His voice was almost monotonous in its quietness. It was as though he
told the story of something which had passed beyond chance or change. As
it unfolded to her understanding, she had seated herself near to his bed.
The door of the room was open, and in view outside on the landing sat
Madame Bulteel reading. She was not, however, near enough to hear the
conversation.
Ingolby's voice was low, but it sounded as loud as a waterfall in the
ears of the girl, who, in a few weeks, had travelled great distances on
the road called Experience, that other name for life.
"It was the manager?" he repeated.
"Yes, they say so," she answered. "He speculated with bank money."
"In what?"
"In your railways," she answered hesitatingly. "Curious--I dreamed that,"
Ingolby remarked quietly, and leaned down and stroked the dog lying at
his feet. It had been with him through all his sickness. "It must have
been part of my delirium, because, now that I've got my senses back, it's
as though someone had told me about it. Speculated in my railways, eh?
Chickens come home to roost, don't they? I suppose I ought to be excited
over it all," he continued. "I suppose I ought.
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