"The store is doing pretty well," Dr. Lavendar went on—and stopped, because Alex entered.
"Whose store is doing pretty well," he asked, civilly enough—for Alex.
"Algernon Keen's," said Dr. Lavendar.
Alex's face changed; he looked from one to the other of the old men by the fire, and he saw his father's hand open and close nervously. But he restrained himself until their visitor had gone. He even went out into the sharp, bright wind and unhitched Dr. Lavendar's little blind horse Goliath, backing the buggy close to the steps and helping the old man in with what politeness he could muster. Then he hurried back into the library to his father.
"I should like to know, sir," he said, standing up with his back to the fire, his legs, in their big, mud-stained top-boots, wide apart, his hands under his coat-tails—"I should like to know, sir, why Dr. Lavendar sees fit to refer to a subject which is most offensive to us?" He fixed his motionless, pale eyes on his father, shrinking back in the winged chair.
"I don't know—I don't know," said John Gordon. Then, suddenly, he put out his hand and caught at the crumpled note on the table beside him and put it in his pocket. Instantly suspicion flamed into Alex's eyes. His face turned dully red, almost purple. He made a step forward as though to interpose and grasp at the paper, restrained himself, and said, with laborious politeness:
"If that is a note, sir—I thought I saw indorsements of interest—sha'n't I put it into the safe for you?"
"I won't trouble you, Alex."
Alex stood silent; then suddenly he struck the table with his fist: "My God! I believe you've been lending money to that—to that—"
Mr. Gordon began to shake very much.