“Then you have no family!”
Giles Crosmont was silent, and a pained expression showed itself on his face.
“Excuse me if I have shown too much curiosity,” said Grant apologetically.
“There is no need to apologize, yet your question called up painful memories. I had a son—I don’t know if he is still alive—who must now be twenty-five years old. He disappointed me. I sent him to college, and he plunged into extravagance. I paid his debts twice. The last time, in my anger, I declined to do so. He forged a check on me for a large sum, paid his debts with part of the proceeds, and then disappeared.”
“How long ago was that?” inquired Grant, in a sympathetic tone.
“Four years. For a year I remained at my home, hoping to hear something from him, but no tidings came. Then I began to travel, and am still travelling. Sometime I may meet him, and if I do——”
“You will forgive him?”
“I will try to reclaim him.”
“I wish my father were living.”
“You have your mother.”