“She ought not to be going without you, my boy.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Gerry, lightly. “She’s well chaperoned. It’s a big party, you know.”
But during the weeks that followed the judge saw it was not all right. Gerry had less and less time for golf and more and more for whisky and soda. The judge was troubled, and felt a sort of relief when from far away Alan Wayne cropped into his affairs and gave him something else to think about.
When Angus McDale of McDale & McDale called without appointment, the judge knew at once that he was going to hear something about Alan.
“Lucky to find you in,” puffed McDale. “It isn’t business exactly or I’d have ’phoned. I was just passing by.”
“Well, what is it?” asked the judge, offering his visitor a fresh cigar.
“It’s this. That boy, Alan Wayne—sort of protégé of yours, isn’t he?”
“Yes, in a way—yes,” said the judge, slowly, frowning. “What has Alan done now?”
“It’s like this,” said McDale. “Six months ago we sent Mr. Wayne out on contract as assistant to Walton. Walton no sooner got on the ground than he fell sick. He put Wayne in charge, and then he died. Now, this is the point. Mr. Wayne seems to have promoted himself to Walton’s pay. He had the cheek to draw his own as well. He won’t be here for weeks, but his accounts came in to-day. I want to know if you see any reason why we shouldn’t have that money back, to say the least.”
The judge’s face cleared.