"My father and I have not talked on that subject, Guy. Are you going up to see him now?"
Wilton hesitated: "I suppose I am.... See here, Duane, how much do you know about—anything?"
"Nothing," he said without humour; "I'm beginning to worry over my father's health.... Guy, don't tell me anything that my father's son ought not to know; but is there something I should know and don't?—anything in which I could possibly be of help to my father?"
Wilton looked carefully at a distant policeman for nearly a minute, then his meditative glance became focussed on vacancy.
"I—don't—know," he said slowly. "I'm going to see your father now. If there is anything to tell, I think he ought to tell it to you. Don't you?"
"Yes. But he won't. Guy, I don't care a damn about anything except his health and happiness. If anything threatens either, he won't tell me, but don't you think I ought to know?"
"You ask too hard a question for me to answer."
"Then can you answer me this? Is father at all involved in any of Jack Dysart's schemes?"
"I—had better not answer, Duane."
"You know best. You understand that it is nothing except anxiety for his personal condition that I thought warranted my butting into his affairs and yours."