"N-no, only—I don't trust him."
"Please, dear, don't excite yourself." Mrs. Whitney noticed with alarm the hectic flush that dyed Kathleen's white cheeks. "I will fill his place. Come to think of it, I did not like his manner this morning when he asked for his wages, and he went out without leave …"
"He selected a curious time to make his request, with Dad so ill."
"Well, you see, my dear," coloring faintly. "I gathered your father has not paid him recently."
"Don't believe that story until you have asked Dad." Kathleen choked back a sob, remembering that her father, her dear father, might never answer another question, no matter how trivial. "Don't look so worried, mother; Dad will get better shortly."
"I pray so." Mrs. Whitney's eyelashes were wet with tears. "Kathleen, did your father ever speak to you of a note for twenty thousand dollars?"
"No, never."
"It comes due next week." Mrs. Whitney looked hopelessly about the room.
"Surely the bank will hold over the matter until Dad is in a condition to attend to his affairs?"
"I sent word to that effect when answering the note teller's letter."