“I was in hopes I’d find you still up,” said Bromley, casting himself into the easiest chair the living-room afforded; then, scanting all the preliminaries: “I have found out what we wanted to know.”
It was not like her to demand details, and she did not do so.
“Is it bad?” she asked, without looking up from her work.
“Just about as bad as it can be. I got the clue from Jim Garth, and then went to see for myself. Afterward, I talked with a man who knows.”
“It did happen that Monday night, then?”
“No doubt about it; though Garth couldn’t be sure of the date.”
“Mr. Garth was there?”
“Yes; he saw Phil and his father when they met, and saw them go off together. Things being as they are, it isn’t much wonder that Phil went to pieces. A whole worldful of misfortunes couldn’t have handed out a blow that would more completely smash a man of Phil’s make-up.”
“But Philip isn’t to blame for what his father has done—or is!” she protested.
“It isn’t the blame Philip is taking; it’s the shame.”