The Son of his Father

by Ridgwell Cullum

Gordon drummed on the desk with his fingers and became thoughtful. He had a painful duty yet to perform.

"Harding," he said at last, with a genuine sigh, his eyes painfully serious. "We've got to go different ways. You've—got to quit."

The valet's face never moved a muscle.

"Yes, sir."

"Right away."

"Yes, sir."

Then the man cleared his throat, and laid the oily-looking cigar on the desk.

"I trust, sir, I've given satisfaction?"

"Satisfaction?" Gordon's tone expressed the most cordial appreciation. "Satisfaction don't express it. I couldn't have kept up the farce of existence without you. You are the best fellow in the world. Guess it's I who haven't given satisfaction."

"Yes, sir."