“I’ve come to see you on his behalf.”
“Oh, he’s in trouble.” His voice had an acid edge. “He wants me to help him out.”
“In trouble—yes—but I’m not sure he’d forgive me if he knew I had come.”
“Still sore, is he?” His features stiffened.
“Not sore,” Helen pleaded, “but—proud.”
“Stubborn”—curtly—“mulish. But why should you come to me?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re his father and he needs a helping hand just now more perhaps than he ever will again.”
“Being his father is no reason, that I can see. He’s never written me a line.”
“And you’ve never tried to find him,” Helen retorted.
“He had a good home and he ran away. He was fourteen—old enough to know what he was doing.”