"Gorham must have made a mistake," he muttered; "this can't be the place."
But the handsome Gothic figures over the doorway corresponded with those written upon the slip of paper, so he approached the elevator boy, resplendent in his brass buttons.
"Does Mr. Allen Sanford live here?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir; eighth floor. What name shall I say, sir?"
"You needn't say any name,—I'll say it myself. I'm his father. Rents must be cheaper than they used to be," he remarked to himself in the elevator. "I guess the boy hasn't suffered much."
Allen had just risen from the window-seat after the painful revelry he had indulged in since Patricia and Riley left him. The ringing of the bell annoyed him. He was in no mood to see any one, and he resented the intrusion. Then he threw the door open and saw his father standing there. For a long moment he stood speechless with amazement, when his face broke into a smile of welcome which touched the old man's heart.
"The pater!" he cried, and in another moment he had him grasped in his arms with a grip which almost crushed him.
"What do you mean, you young reprobate," Sanford gasped, struggling to escape. "I'm not a football dummy. Let me get my breath."
Allen dragged him into the room, unwilling to release him.
"The dear old pater," he cried again, depositing him in the great Morris chair, and drawing back to regard him joyfully. "You've come just in time. There are my trunks packed all ready to go to you. You said I'd come back, and you were right. Oh, pater, I've made an awful mess of things. You knew that I was no good, but I've had to find it out for myself."