"Who is this, Papa?" he demanded with the air of a school-master catching a boy red-handed.
The old man cringed. "This—this is a young man."
"So I see."
"Well, I—I didn't exactly ask him his name."
"Evan Weir," spoke up the young man for himself.
"He came home with me," said Deaves. "There was a little trouble."
The younger Deaves was horrified. "Another disgraceful street scene!" he cried. Addressing Evan he said: "Please tell me exactly what happened." He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "But not here. Come up to my library."
He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!" Between the two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.
He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.
"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.