The house was lighted in almost every room. In front of it he halted again, struggling weakly against that attracting force. In there was Roy’s mother—the mother of the boy he had destroyed—waiting distractedly for some tidings of her unfortunate son. How could he face her? How could he utterly crush her with the terrible truth?
As he faltered and wavered, he became aware that some one was coming up Cross Street. In the silence, even at that distance, he heard the sound of footsteps.
“Some of the searchers—Roy’s father, perhaps—returning to tell her that they have not found him. When they do find him—oh, when they do!”
Then he thought of another house, a modest little white cottage, farther up the street. It was to that cottage that he should go, after all. There he would find the one to whom his confession should be made. This decided on, he forced his stiff and swollen ankle to bear him a little farther, with the aid of the stick, which clumped upon the sidewalk as he hobbled. There was a light in one of the windows of the cottage, the window of Professor Richardson’s study. The professor was awake. He was there in his study, waiting for some news of Roy. Well, he should soon know it all.
Shultz rang the door-bell, and barely had he done so when he heard some one hastening to answer. Through the sidelights of the door came the gleam of a lamp. A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the old professor, in dressing-gown and slippers, lamp in hand, stood before Charley Shultz.
“What is it?” he eagerly asked, his voice hoarse and husky. “You’ve come to tell me. They have found him?”
“I’ve come to tell you everything, professor,” was the answer. “May I come in? I’m ready to drop. I can’t stand a minute longer.”
“Come in, my boy—come in. Good gracious! you’re in rags. You’re lame! You’re hurt!”
Having closed the door, the professor sought to aid his visitor to hobble into the study, which opened off the hall. In that room Shultz dropped heavily upon a chair, the stick, released by his nerveless hands, falling with a thud upon the rug.
“My goodness!” breathed the old man, staring aghast at the boy. “You must have been through a terrible experience. You’re ghastly pale, and your face is scratched and cut. What has happened to you?”