There leaps into her eyes a swift gleam of alarm. Then she realizes what he refers to and seeks to avoid—pride comes to the rescue.
“Yes, I believe so, Mr. Craig. Tell me what has happened. It is something terrible, I know, for your face is so very sober. John——”
“No, it is your father, Miss Dorothy.”
He has with some diplomacy managed to turn her back toward the good people who fill the room. The music, one of Schumann’s weird creations, rises and falls in sobs and strange, almost unearthly sounds, until it seems to Aleck the elements have united in mourning over Samson Cereal’s downfall.
“Tell me the worst, I can stand it. See, I have more courage than you give me credit for, but for Heaven’s sake be quick!”
He realizes that there is need of haste, for it must be agony to her, each second’s delay.
“Your father has received a telegram—it must have contained news of a distressing character, for I found him in the library, giving way to his emotion and speaking of being ruined.”
“Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Craig! My poor papa!”
“I understand that you would hardly care to have these people eye-witnesses of the scene, and so I closed the door. Then I sought you and looked for John.”
“Let us go to him at once. If there is suffering I should share it with my poor father.”