Recovering his composure in a measure, his hand touched the revolver in his pocket, the tall figure instinctively straightened and he walked rapidly toward the hall. He had barely passed the centre of the room when the boy's voice distinctly echoed from the head of the stairs:
"I'll be back in a minute, dear!"
He heard the door of Helen's room close softly and the firm step descend the stairs. The library door opened and closed quickly, and Tom stood before him, his proud young head lifted and his shoulders squared. The dignity and reserve of conscious manhood shone in every line of his stalwart body and spoke in every movement of face and form.
"Well, sir," he said quietly. "It's done now and it can't be helped, you know."
Norton was stunned by the sudden appearance of the dear familiar form. His eyes were dim with unshed tears. It was too hideous, this awful thing he had to do! He stared at him piteously and with an effort walked to his side, speaking in faltering tones that choked between the words:
"Yes, it's done now—and it can't be helped"—he strangled and couldn't go on—"I—I—have realized that, my son—but I—I have an old letter from your mother—that I wanted to show you before you go—you'll find it on the desk there."
He pointed to the desk on which burned the only light in the room.
The boy hesitated, pained by the signs of deep anguish in his father's face, turned and rapidly crossed the room.
The moment his back was turned, Norton swiftly and silently locked the door, and with studied carelessness followed.
The boy began to search for the letter: