At sight of him the banker was greatly startled.
“My son!” he gasped, rubbing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a dream.
“You make a mistake, sir,” replied the other, “you have no son.”
“Wilbur!”
The gray-haired banker fell on his knees and lifted his hands imploringly.
“You had a son and how did you treat him? Answer me that, old man?”
Hilton Field did not speak; his lips moved, but no sound came from them.
“Because,” continued Wilbur, “he married the woman he loved, you drove him from your house, and made a villain of him. Your blue blood revolted against receiving a ballet girl as your daughter.”
“You forged my name for large amounts,” said the banker, rising to his feet; “had you not done so, I might have forgiven you.”
“Was I to starve while you rolled in plenty?” asked the son. “You publicly announced that I was no longer a son of yours. Look at your work and be proud of it, if you can”—he stretched forth his hands—“they are dyed in blood. The son of Hilton Field, banker, is a murderer and a thief. Tremble, old man, for it is you, not I, who will have to answer one day for me.”