She was near to tears, and she was loath to have him go. These were dreary days for Adelaide Craighill; but Wayne had eaten of the fruit of the tree of wisdom and knew the danger that lies in woman’s tears. Their hands touched, and he left her.
Colonel Craighill sat empty-handed by the library table, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall. He did not recognize his son at once and Mrs. Craighill’s intimations had not prepared Wayne for the broken figure before him; his father’s rosy complexion had given way to a sick pallor, and he had lost flesh. He sprang to his feet and flung round with a pitiful look of fear in his eyes.
“Good evening, father. I’m sorry I startled you; please sit down again. I can stay only a few minutes.”
Colonel Craighill sank back into his chair—the big leathern seat that had been his father’s as long as Wayne could remember.
“You have been away, Wayne. They told me you had been West. I didn’t know you had come back.”
“I’m back for only a short time. I have seen Walsh, and he has gone over your affairs with me. He is sanguine of the outcome and believes that you will yet save a good part of your estate. I don’t mean to trouble you by discussing these things with you. I came to help.”
“The banks have acted ungenerously,” flared the Colonel. “Men I had thought my friends have turned against me. The worst of the depression passed long ago, but they are not satisfied to carry me until I can make a turn.”
“I understand it all perfectly. I have seen the figures.”
“The Hercules National people have pursued me malevolently,” continued Colonel Craighill, his voice wavering as his anger rose, “and the others have taken their cue from them. Walsh has done all he could; but they are a lot of ingrates—when I have laboured all my life for the honour and dignity of the city.”