“Why shouldn't a soldier have a conscience? Do you take your idea of officers from the lady novelist, who makes us out to be all idle idiots?”
“Not exactly. All the same, many a man would not take the trouble to behave as you are doing to this unlucky woman.”
“Any man, who was a man, whether soldier or civilian, would help such a poor creature. And I believe, Hope, that you will help her also.”
The artist leaped to his feet impulsively.
“Of course. I'm with you right along, as Hervey would say. But first, before deciding what we shall do to set Mrs. Jasher on her legs again, let us hear what she has to say.”
“She can say nothing more than she has said,” remonstrated Random.
“I don't believe that,” replied Hope, reaching for his overcoat. “You may choose to believe that the letter was the outcome of bluff. But I really and truly think that Mrs. Jasher is in the know. What is more, I believe that Bolton got her those clothes, and that she was the woman who talked to him—went there to see how the little scheme was progressing.”
“If I thought that,” said Random coldly, “I would not help Mrs. Jasher.”
“Oh, yes, you would. The greater the sinner the more need she or he has of help, you know, my dear fellow. But get your coat on, and let us toddle. I don't suppose we need pistols.”
Sir Frank laughed, as, aided by the artist, he struggled into his military greatcoat.
“I don't suppose that Mrs. Jasher will be dangerous,” he remarked. “We'll get what we can out of her, and then arrange what is best to be done to recoup her fallen fortunes. Then she can go where she chooses, and we can,—as the French say—return to our muttons.”