“His father!” An angry flush tinted the older man’s cheeks.
“Jack was not unusually bad or weak, and he was naturally most likable. He would have turned out well enough if his father had trained him right from the start and placed a man’s responsibilities—”
“I don’t want to hear any damned sermon!” the other interrupted. “What’s done, is done! I’ve got to face the present. I’ve done all I can to save him—and I’ve failed!”
He paused, then went on in savage desperation. “And if anything is going to be done, it’s got to be done quick! I’ve controlled him, to an extent, by controlling his money. But a fool aunt of his died the other day, and left him a legacy of two hundred thousand which automatically becomes his on his twenty-fifth birthday—and he’ll be twenty-five in a month. If he’s not got hold of before he gets that money, then the last chance is gone!”
He was silent a moment. Then came another burst, even more desperate.
“God, can’t you see what it means to me?—my only son!—all the plans I’ve built on him!—and him come to this! For God’s sake, isn’t there anything that can be done to save him!”
Clifford regarded him steadily. But there had suddenly begun a wild pounding of his heart.
“There is just one thing that might possibly save your son.”
“What’s that?” the other cried quickly.
Clifford hesitated, while the struggle which had so swiftly arisen within himself fought itself out.