"Dear me, dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, staring at his wife helplessly; "what do you suppose has happened to Frederick? A boy of his age talking of suicide is—Oh, good morning, Mr. Force. Merry Christmas! 'Pon my word, you're an early bird. Come up to the fire. You look half frozen. Why, by George, your teeth are chattering. Diggs! Throw on a couple of logs, will you, and get the whiskey. We keep it for medicinal purposes and—"
"Not for me," broke in Mr. Force hastily. "Not a thing to drink, old man. I'm quite all right. It is a bit snappy outside. Good morning, Mrs. Bingle. How are you feeling since the—I beg your pardon, Bingle, I really don't want a drink. Silly of me to shiver like this. You'd think I had a chill, wouldn't you? But I'll be all right in a minute or two."
He stood with his back to the blazing logs. His teeth were chattering, but not because of the cold. Every nerve in his body was on edge; his physical being was merely responding to the turmoil that filled his brain. Could they have seen his hands, clasped behind his back, they might have wondered why the fingers were locked together in a grip so fierce that the cords stood out in ridges on his wrists.
"You don't know what you miss, not having children about you on Christmas morning," said Mr. Bingle, planting his small figure alongside that of the tall man and attempting to spread his coat tails, an utter impossibility in view of the fact that he had no tails to spread, being incased in a dressing gown that reached almost to his heels when he stood erect but unmistakably touched the floor if he permitted his dignity to sag in the least—and he was having some difficulty in maintaining his dignity on this doleful morning, it may be said. "It would have done your heart good, Force, if you could have been here this morning—say at half-past six—and seen the circus we had. Well, sir, it was—"
"Half-past six? My dear man, you don't mean to say those little rascals got you out of bed at that ungodly hour. Why, I would have—"
"Just the other way 'round," said Mr. Bingle, sheepishly. "We had to fairly yank 'em out of bed. We are the rascals, Force—Mary and I. We couldn't wait, don't you see? But, of course, you don't see. You couldn't see unless you'd been counting on Christmas morning for months. You—But, what's the matter, Force? 'Pon my word, you DO need a bracer. Mary, dear, won't you see if—"
"See here, Bingle," blurted out Mr. Force, in desperation, "I want a few words with you alone. It is—imperative. Hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Bingle. I'm a bit upset—yes, considerably upset—over something that has come up in the—er—that is to say, quite recently. I—I want your husband's advice on—on a matter of grave importance."
The Bingles stared at him for a moment in speechless concern. Then Mr. Bingle managed to give expression to the fear that entered his heart as Force concluded his amazing remarks.
"Anything—anything wrong at the bank?" he inquired, swallowing hard. Was the man about to tell him that the bank—the great bank—was going under, that there had been defalcations, that—but even as he pictured the collapse of the bank there shot into his brain another and still more ghastly thought: had the Supreme Court decided against him in the long-fought case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle?
"Certainly NOT," exclaimed Mr. Force, with sudden irascibility. His nerves WERE at a high tension, there was no denying that. "Nothing whatever to do with the bank, sir. What the dev—what could have put such a thought into your head, Bingle?"