Trevor cried, bursting into the small study where his friend sat writing a letter to his family. “Russell Wilmot is the worst type of vermin to crawl upon the earth. You would not believe what my contacts have discovered.” Leaning back in his chair, his quill held lax between his fingers, Hugh looked up. Trevor’s countenance conveyed a deep agitation. His sable hair, normally neatly waved back off his high forehead, spiked outward at the sides of his head, augmenting his wild-eyed appearance. Despite his own low spirits and depression, Hugh was moved to listen to his friend, albeit dully. “Mannion took some loans out this spring, and guess who holds the notes?” “Wilmot,” Hugh said flatly. “How did you guess?” Hugh snorted. “I’ve know that since Wednesday.” “Wednesday! That was nearly a week ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”
