"It didn't go very well with him, Graydon. He isn't here any more."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the trial. There was a trial, you see. Haven't you heard anything?"
"Trial? He—he was arrested?" came numbly from the young man's lips.
"I can't mince matters, Graydon. I'll get it over as quickly as possible. Your father was tried for blackmail and was convicted. He is in—he's in the penitentiary."
The son's face became absolutely bloodless; his eyes were full of comprehension and horror, and his body stiffened as if he were turning to stone. The word penitentiary fell slowly, mechanically from his lips. He looked into Droom's eyes, hoping it might be a joke of the calloused old clerk.
"You—it—it can't be true," he murmured, his trembling hands going to his temples.
"Yes, my boy, it is true. I didn't write to you about it, because I wanted to put it off as long as I could. It's for five years."
"God!" burst from the wretched son. A wave of shame and grief sent the tears flooding to his eyes. "Poor old dad!" He turned and walked to the window, his shoulders heaving. Droom stood silent for a long time, watching Bansemer's son, pity and triumph in his face.
"Do you want to hear about it?" he asked at last. Graydon's head was bent in assent.