“What shall you tell him?” asked Miss Colton.
“I don't know,” I answered. “I do not know. I am afraid I am of no use whatever. This is no countryman's job. No country banker, even a real one, should attempt to handle this. This is high finance with a vengeance. I don't know. I think he . . . Suppose we tell him to consult the people at your father's office.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “The people at the office know nothing of it. This was Father's own personal affair. No one knows of it but Mr. Davis.”
“How about them instructions?” this from Cahoon.
“Tell him—yes, tell him Mr. Colton cannot leave here at present and that he must use his own judgment, go ahead on his own responsibility. That is the only thing I see to do, Miss Colton. Don't worry; he must be a man of experience and judgment or your father never would use him. He will pull it through, I am sure.”
I was by no means as confident as I pretended to be, however, and the next message from Davis proved my forebodings to be well founded. His answer was prompt and emphatic:
Matter too important. Decline to take responsibility. Must have definite instructions or shall not act. Is this Mr. Colton himself?
“He would not act without Father's orders in a matter like this. I was afraid of it. And he is growing suspicious. Oh, CAN'T you help me, Mr. Paine? CAN'T you? I relied on you. I felt sure YOU would know what to do. I am—I am SO alone; and with Father so ill—I—I—”
She turned away and leaned her head upon her hand on the table. I felt again the desperate impulse I had felt when we were alone on board the launch, the impulse to take her in my arms and try to comfort her, to tell her that I would do anything—anything for her. And yet what could I do?
“Can't you help me?” she pleaded. “You have never failed me before.”