“Not going! The devil you say!”
He stared at her white, set face. Dominated by his own pleasant conception of this situation, he had not till then really noted her bearing. He was completely taken aback.
“Well—you have your nerve! Then why did you ask me to come over here, and at such an hour?”
“I thought you might like to see your son.”
“Jack!” he exclaimed.
She nodded. “He’s in here”—and moving back a pace she pointed into the car.
“My God—Jack!” breathed his father, as he sighted the limp, exhausted figure. Then he saw Clifford. “You, Clifford!” he exclaimed sharply. “Where’d you find him?”
Clifford stepped from the car. “I didn’t find him. Miss Gilmore found him.”
Morton turned swiftly upon Mary. “So you’ve broken your promise and had him all this time!” he cried harshly. “You brought him to this!”
“Hold on, Mr. Morton,” Clifford shot in. “Miss Gilmore had not seen him till to-night. To-night she found him in the drunken company he’s been in for ten days. She got him away from them and sent for you. The least a gentleman—particularly a gentleman who has taken such poor care of his son—can do under the conditions is to try to apologize.”