He bade good-by to the Griscoms as he left. Arline remained with her father for several minutes. Then she, too, departed. The old man was alone.
The afternoon slipped by. Howard Griscom remained a pathetic, solitary figure; a man whose conscience was free, but whose mind and soul were torn by doubt and indecision.
Arline had been there at noon. It was nearly four o’clock when Maurice Belden called to see the theater owner. Griscom received him.
Belden’s very appearance was deceiving. He was tall and well-dressed. His waxed mustache gave him a dandified appearance. His eyes were watchful and shrewd.
This afternoon, he seemed more crafty than ever. He sat down at the opposite side of the desk from Howard Griscom.
“It’s no use, Belden,” said the elderly man. “I’m not going to even consider your proposals. I—”
He paused to answer the telephone, which had begun to ring. Belden watched him, with catlike stealth.
“Arline?” questioned Griscom. “Yes? What!” His face turned ashen. “I can’t believe it! Tell me — where are you now? What’s that? If I say a word it may mean death — to you? Arline! Arline!”
HE joggled the receiver. The call had come to an abrupt ending. Griscom laid the instrument down mechanically. His eyes had become dull and listless. He was like a man in a trance.
“What is the matter?” inquired Belden.