The unfathomable self-possession made its own impression on Dalton.
"Very likely," he muttered.
"Then if you will give my man the number or the name of the hotel, or whatever it may be, he will put in the call," said Anthony Fry. "Let us hope that you'll be able to talk to your son shortly. If he doesn't answer, wire him," Anthony pursued, impatiently. "That is the very best I can suggest."
Theodore Dalton's hand passed through his hair, pausing to clutch it for a moment; Wilkins, waiting attentively, met his eye and Dalton, having cleared his dry throat, mumbled the name of a camp and turned back to Anthony.
That remarkable figure was quite erect and merely waiting for a chance to speak again. So far as the general theme was concerned, his mind was fairly well settled; it meant certain ruin for him, if Dalton was kind enough to believe; it was likely enough to mean even criminal prosecution, but it bade fair to save Mary. Anthony even smiled composedly as he tacked on new details; thus does suffering refine us!
Apparently, several of them were about to speak at once. Anthony held up his lean, commanding hand for silence.
"One moment, please!" said the amazing Anthony. "There is no cause for any further excitement, any further speculation. The thing has gone too far now; it has passed beyond me and—I have failed."
"What?" Robert rasped.
Anthony drew a deep breath.
"Will you all be seated?" he asked. "I—I wish to confess the truth!"