“What’s that?” he asked sharply.
Moses looked plaintive.
“Ain’t had no time to pitch ’em outen heah, suh. Dey’s from Mist’ Wilyum’s room.”
Mr. Carter restrained an impulse to count the bottles, and said nothing. At the eighth floor he got out and walked reluctantly across the hall to his son’s door. He opened it without knocking and looked in.
William was seated at his desk, his arms hanging down at his sides and his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. There was no indication of intemperance unless it lay in the deathly pallor and the disheveled hair. Mr. Carter strode over to the table and struck it loudly with his fist to call attention to his presence.
“We’d be honored if you’d come home,” he said dryly. “You’ve nothing to fear there—she’s cleared out.”
William raised his haggard eyes.
“How about Leigh? I haven’t seen Dan for days.”
“Dan’s trying to save his brother from”—Mr. Carter’s voice grew suddenly hoarse—“from eighteen years’ imprisonment.”
“Good Lord!” cried William aghast. “They couldn’t do that—he’s nothing but a kid!”