"She began to ail when she—returned from Toronto—nearly a year ago."
"A year—ago?"
"Yes."
The keen eyes of the millionaire were strangely soft as he watched the evident suffering in the boy's young face. He waited.
"I——" Frank hesitated. Then, with a sudden impulsive rush, he blurted out a request. "Can I—that is, might I be allowed to call and see—her?" he asked, his voice hoarse with sudden emotion. He had forgotten he desired nothing at this man's hands.
"Why, yes. The doors of Deep Willows are always open to you."
Frank looked up. For a moment something very like panic swept over him. His visitor's eyes were upon him, watching him with nothing but kindness in their depths. Each was thinking of the same thing. Each knew that a battle had been fought out between them, and victory had been won. Frank's panic lay in the knowledge that he had been the loser. Then his panic passed, and only resentment, and his anxiety for Monica remained. But the miracle of it was that his resentment was far less than he could have believed possible.
Hendrie picked up his hat.
"I'm glad I came," he said, moving toward the door.
Frank averted his eyes.