"But somehow—the standards of a lifetime—it's difficult to change. The moment I had called him, I regretted it. I tried to slip out of it—I told myself there must be some other way—perhaps I could sell the Reef and Palm—anyhow, I called him again and said I wasn't coming. But he insisted, and I went.
"I didn't have to tell him what I wanted. He knew. He had a check ready for me—a check for five thousand dollars. It was Cary's happiness, her chance. I took it, and came away—but I was ashamed. I'm not trying to excuse my action; however, I don't believe I would ever have cashed it. When Cary found it in my desk and brought it to me, I tore it up. That's all." He turned his tired eyes toward his daughter. "I did it for you, Cary, but I didn't want you to know." She went over and put her arm about his shoulder, and stood smiling down at him through her tears.
"If you'd told us that in the first place," said Greene, "you could have saved everybody a lot of trouble, yourself included."
Cope stood up. "Well, Mr. Prosecutor, there you are. You're not going to hold him now?"
Greene rose briskly. "No. I'll arrange for his release at once." He and Egan went out together, then Hallet and Cope. John Quincy held out his hand to Carlota Egan—for by that name he thought of her still.
"I'm mighty glad for you," he said.
"You'll come and see me soon?" she asked. "You'll find a very different girl. More like the one you met on the Oakland ferry."
"She was very charming," John Quincy replied. "But then, she was bound to be—she had your eyes." He suddenly remembered Agatha Parker. "However, you've got your father now," he added. "You won't need me."
She looked up at him and smiled. "I wonder," she said, and went out.
John Quincy turned to Chan. "Well, that's that," he remarked. "Where are we now?"