And another:
“For Heaven’s sake, wire if this reaches you, and start west by next train.
“MacGonigal.”
The messages latest in arriving were naturally on top of the bundle, and his trembling fingers were tearing at another envelop when someone touched him on the shoulder. It was an official of the bank, who had spoken to him twice in vain across the counter, and was now standing at his side.
“I’m afraid you have bad news from Bison, Mr. Power,” he said gently. “Your manager—or partner, is it?—Mr. MacGonigal, has been telegraphing us repeatedly during the past five days; but unfortunately we did not know where to find you. Your mother is ill, very ill.”
“Is she dead?”
Power could only whisper the words, and the other noted in voice and manner what he construed as a son’s natural agitation at such a moment.
“No,” he said, “but she is undoubtedly in danger. It seems to me, from what MacGonigal says, that a telegram from you telling her you are on board a west-bound train will be more effective than any doctor’s treatment.”
Power was shaking as though from ague. He alone knew the frightful alternative that faced him now. If he went to Newport, he would be deserting his mother, who was perhaps dying. If he went to Bison, he was deserting Nancy in the hour of her utmost need. At that instant he dared not, he could not, decide, and the knowledge that he even hesitated was like the thrust of a sword through his heart.
“I—I——” he began, and his tongue seemed to refuse its office.