He was still striding up and down the room, when Harry, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast. Had some friend of his uncle found a gold mine in the back yard--or, better still, had Todd just discovered a forgotten row of old “Brahmin Madeira” in some dark corner of his cellar--St. George could not have been more buoyant. “Glad you didn't get up any earlier, you good-for-nothing sleepy-head!” he cried in welcoming, joyous tones. “You have just missed that ill-smelling buzzard.” “What buzzard?” asked Harry, glancing over the letters on the mantel in the forlorn hope of finding one from Kate. “Why, Gadgem--and that is the last you will ever see of him.” “Why?--has father paid him?” he asked in a listless way, squeezing Dandy's nose thrust affectionately into his hand--his mind still on Kate. Now that Willits was with her, as every one said, she would never write him again. He was a fool to expect it, he thought, and he sighed heavily. “Of course he hasn't paid him--but I have. That is, a friend of mine has--or will.” “You have!” cried Harry with a start. He was interested now--not for himself, but for St. George: no penny of his uncle's should ever go to pay his debts. “Where did the money come from?” “Never you mind where the money came from. You found it for Gilbert--did he ask you where you got it? Why should you ask me?” “Well, I won't; but you are mighty good to me, Uncle George, and I am very grateful to you.” The relief was not overwhelming, for the burden of the debt had not been heavy. It was only the sting of his father's refusal that had hurt. He had always believed that the financial tangle would be straightened out somehow. “No!--damn it!--you are not grateful. You sha'n't be grateful!” cried St. George with a boyish laugh, seating himself that he might fill his pipe the better from a saucer of tobacco on the table. “If you were grateful it would spoil it all. What you can do, however, is to thank your lucky stars that that greasy red pocket-handkerchief will never be aired in your presence again. And there's another thing you can be thankful for now that you are in a thankful mood, and that is that Mr. Poe will be at Guy's to-morrow, and wants to see me.” He had finished filling the pipe bowl, and had struck a match. The boy's eyes danced. Gadgem, his father, his debts, everything--was forgotten. “Oh, I'm so glad! How do you know?” “Here's a letter from him.” (Puff-puff.) “And can I see him?” “Of course you can see him! We will have him to dinner, my boy! Here comes Todd with your coffee. Take my seat so I can talk to you while I smoke.” CHAPTER XIV Although St. George dispensed his hospitality without form or pretence, never referring to his intended functions except in a casual way, the news of so unusual a dinner to so notorious a man as Edgar Allan Poe could not long be kept quiet.