His father had done it. His success in averting discovery for years, by making him feel safe against the danger that Tommy so poignantly dreaded, had made the trusted bank employee play for a last huge stake. To help his son at any cost had become not a habit, but an obsession. A madman had done this. But would the world so consider it?
“Mr. Thompson?” he exclaimed, miserably.
“Yes, my boy.”
“I—I—”
“Do you think you know now?”
“N—no. But I—I must return to New York—at once—to-night!”
“Can you tell me—”
“I can't because I don't—know for sure.” He bit his lip.
Thompson pulled out his pocket-book, took some yellowbacks from it, gave them to Tommy, and said: “A train leaves in forty minutes. Take my car, outside. Get your things. Come back from New York with the explanation. It is time you had it. If there isn't any explanation, come back anyhow. Tell me as much as you please—or nothing at all. It will make no difference to us here. We know you, Tommy, even if I did you an injustice for a moment, though I really couldn't see how I had made a mistake.”
“I hope you haven't,” said Tommy. The time must come when Thompson would know all.