Jack laughed, a little grimly. “No, nothing like that,” he answered, “I’m in trouble, that’s all. I’ve stayed too long in a falling market, and got caught. If I can’t get help from Henry, I guess I’m done.”
In the darkness Edward Carleton reached out his hand, and laid it on his son’s shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said, “I’m sorry. If only Henry has the money available. But I don’t know. These must be terrible times for every one. Tell him if there’s any way he can use what he holds for me, that I asked him to do so. I’m so sorry, Jack—so sorry—”
With what was for him unusual feeling, Jack took his father’s hand in both his own. “Thank you, father,” he said, “I know you are. It’s all my own fault, of course. I don’t deserve any help. But it’s all come so suddenly. I never thought—”
He broke off abruptly, then spoke again. “Well, I suppose I must get back in town, I haven’t much time. I never dreamed of not finding Henry here. I’m sorry I can’t stay. Good night, father,” and he was gone.
It was nearly two hours later when he hastened down Adams Street toward the Harmon Building, where high overhead in many a window, lights ordinarily extinguished by five or six o’clock, were still burning brightly; some of them, indeed, destined to gleam and flicker throughout that long, anxious summer’s night, and only to pale at last as the first faint streaks of dawn struck through the shades on the men who planned and toiled within, working feverishly, with gray, unshaven faces, and weary, bloodshot, deep-sunken eyes.
Getting out of the elevator at the fourth floor, Jack hastily made his way into Henry Carleton’s offices. Once there, however, although his name was quickly sent in, he was compelled to wait for a full half hour in the outer corridor, until at length a bell rang sharply, and a tired looking clerk, with a nod of his head toward the inner office, signified that the audience was granted. With a curious sense of old-time familiarity, Jack entered the big square room which he had visited last, now upward of three years ago, and closed the door behind him.
Over by the window, Henry Carleton was seated at his desk. He was a man of about fifty, in complexion so dark as to appear almost swarthy, and with coal black hair and beard, here and there just faintly touched with gray. He was tall, much of Jack’s height and build, yet constructed upon finer lines, with a sinuous grace of movement that had about it something almost feline. His face was rather long, the forehead and cheek-bones high, the eyes were black and piercing, and the lips of the strong, well-chiseled mouth noticeably full and red. Altogether, an interesting face, a fitting index to the dual personality of the man—Henry Carleton the shrewd and able leader in the business world, and Henry Carleton the musician and man of letters—the artist to his finger-tips.
As Jack entered, he glanced up pleasantly enough, though far back in his eyes there lurked a hidden gleam of some emotion difficult to fathom. “Why, hello, Jack,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you. What brings you here? Sit down.” He motioned toward a chair.
Jack Carleton came forward into the room, standing a little awkwardly with his hand on the back of the proffered seat. “It’s the market, Henry,” he said briefly, “I’ve got caught. I have to raise twenty thousand by the opening to-morrow, or go under. I’ve just come from home; I thought I’d find you there. I’ll tell you the truth. I hate like hell to come to you, and you know it, but I’ve got to get the money somehow, and if you can help me, I wish to Heaven you would.”
Henry Carleton gazed at him meditatively. “Better sit down,” he said curtly, and this time Jack accepted the invitation. There was a short silence. Then Henry Carleton drew a tiny note-book from his pocket, and looked up, with pencil poised, “Now let’s have it,” he said.