Mr. Sutherland, who had turned over the document as his son approached, breathed more easily. Taking up his pen, he dipped it in the ink. Frederick watched him with constantly whitening cheek. The step on the walk had mounted to the front door.
"Nine hundred and fifty?" inquired the father.
"Nine hundred and fifty," answered the son.
The judge, with a last look, stooped over the book. The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten.
"Father, I have my whole future in which to thank you," cried Frederick, seizing the check his father held out to him and making rapidly for the door. "I will be back before midnight." And he flung himself down-stairs just as the front door opened and Wattles stepped in.
"Ah," exclaimed the latter, as his eye fell on the paper fluttering in the other's hand, "I expected money, not paper."
"The paper is good," answered Frederick, drawing him swiftly out of the house. "It has my father's signature upon it."
"Your father's signature?"
"Yes."
Wattles gave it a look, then slowly shook his head at Frederick.