I. A. R. Wylie

“ Otway started round. The change was now real, absolute. The stricken, awful figure sat upright. Like some ghastly, galvanized image of death, it pointed at him, its shaking, bloodless lips forming words which had as yet no sound. Otway sprang across the intervening space. The outstretched hand gripped and held him. The fleshless fingers drove themselves into his flesh with the strength of despair. ”

“ At the same time, I suggest a change of quarters. You will find my check large enough to cover all present needs even to a West End house. Later on we will talk together again. You know my address.” He took up his hat. “Do me the kindness to make no protests. I am wealthy enough to afford myself the pleasure of giving ability a helping hand.”
Otway had drawn the check from the cover. He looked up now. His usually tightly closed lips were parted though he were breathing heavily; his forehead was damp with the same nameless conflict of desire and protest. The protest died. ”

“ As a matter of fact, I was sure you would tell me when the matter occurred to you.” He paused a moment, his gaze turned placidly to the firelight. “By the way,” he went on, “it seems a shame to spoil the ship for the proverbial pennyworth; two hundred pounds won't help Doctor Otway far. He must have influence to get attention paid to him, and influence is expensive. I spoke to my father about it yesterday. I think between us we shall get Otway going in fine style.” ”