"Daddy, what in the world has happened? Who is it that has killed some one? We couldn't help hearing that much."
He raised himself. "Come here."
Going forward, she knelt down beside him, taking his hand and kissing it.
"You poor daddy! You're bothered, aren't you?"
"It's—it's young Follett. He's been stealing money from the bank, and now he's shot one of the detectives who heard he was hiding in a cabin out on the New Jersey marshes. They'd sent out a description of him to the suburban stations. And only to-day I told his sister that I'd call the thing off and give him another chance."
"She came to see you?"
"She came to see me."
"Then you did what you could, didn't you?"
"I did what I could—then." In spite of the emphasis on the final word, he slapped his knee with new conviction. "I've done what I could all through. It's no use saying I haven't, because I have. There's just so much you can do, and you can't do any more. You can't make a business a home for indigent old gentlemen—now, can you?"
He sprang to his feet, leaving her kneeling by the chair.