Often life seems one long series of interruptions; and, more often than not, interruptions are petty and annoying. That it is our inconsequential acquaintances who interrupt us most frequently is easily enough understood—far more easily understood than accepted. But it is much more difficult to understand how often some crisis is transmuted or decided by some very minor personality, and a personality in no way concerned in the crucial thing it decides or alters.

Stephen was determined that Hugh should go—and go now.

Hugh was determined to stay, at all cost, until he had searched, and exhausted search of, this room to which both he and Helen had been so stupendously impressed.

Helen wished him to stay, but feared his staying. Her will in the matter swung an unhappy pendulum to and fro between the two wills of the brothers.

Hugh, Helen, and Stephen, and of all the world they alone, were vitally interested in the pending decision and in its consequences. How that decision would have gone, left to them, can never be known.

Barker the inept, and old Morton Grant fated an intruder at Deep Dale, interrupted, and, so to speak, decided the issue.

“Nothing,” Hugh had replied evasively to his brother’s “What are you looking at?” and had gone to the window, as if to avoid further question. Stephen, unsatisfied, was following him persistently when Barker opened the door and announced, “Mr. Grant.” Helen started to check her, but Stephen with a quick gesture, stayed her, and before she could speak speech was too late. Barker blundered out, and Grant came timidly in.

The old clerk had aged and broken sadly in eight months. Very evidently he was more in awe of Stephen Pryde than at the worst of times he had been of Richard Bransby. He stood awkwardly just inside the room, and fumbled with his hat, and fumbled for words.

“Good—er—good-afternoon, Mr. Pryde. How do you do, Miss Bransby? I trust——”

Stephen interrupted him sharply. “Well, Grant?”

“Er—I—I—am very sorry to intrude on you like this——”

“Yes, yes; but what do you want?” Stephen snapped.

“It’s—it’s about Mr. Hugh, sir.”

Stephen and Helen exchanged a quick look, she all apprehension, he trying to hide his elation, trying to look anxious too. Hugh turned at his name and came toward the others.

“About me? Well, here I am. What about me, Grant?”

The old man was amazed and moved. “Mr. Hugh,” he stammered, letting his inseparable hat fall into a chair. “God bless me—it is Mr. Hugh.”

“Accurate as ever, Grant, eh?” Hugh chaffed him, smiling with boyish friendliness.

Morton Grant went to him eagerly, almost as if about to verify his own eyesight by touch.

“You are all right, sir? You are well?”

“Never better.”

“I am glad, sir. I’m very glad indeed,” the old man said brokenly.

Stephen Pryde had had enough of this. “Yes, yes, yes,” he interrupted testily; “but why are you here, Grant? You said it was about Hugh.”

“It is, sir,” the clerk answered quickly, recalled to his errand; “the—the authorities came to the office to-day, searching for him.”

“Well, that’s cheerful,” Hugh commented.

Helen gave a little sob.

“It appears,” Grant continued, “that he has been seen and recognized lately. They thought we might have news of him.”

Stephen turned to Hugh curtly, but still trying to hide his triumph.

“You see the risks you are running.”

“What did you tell them, Grant?” Hugh asked.

“I said we knew nothing of your whereabouts, sir. Then I came directly here.”

“Were you followed?” Stephen asked sharply.

The question and the idea took Grant aback. “I—I don’t think so, sir!” he said feebly. “It never occurred to me that such a thing was possible. I’ve never had any experience with the police,” he apologized sadly.

“Your common sense should have told you not to come,” Stephen said brutally.

“I dare say, sir,” Grant admitted piteously; “but it seemed to me to be the only thing I could do.”

“You must go back at once,” Stephen ordered.

“Very good, sir,” Grant agreed meekly.

“And if you are questioned again——”

For the first time in his life, Morton Grant interrupted an employer. And he did it brusquely and with determined self-assertion.

“I shall say that I have seen nothing of Mr. Hugh—absolutely nothing.”

Hugh went to him with outstretched hand; but Helen was there first.

“Oh yes, that’s fine—fine,” Stephen said briskly.

Helen caught Grant’s arm in her hands, and thanked him without a word—with swimming eyes. But Hugh spoke.

“Thank you, Grant.”

Grant paid no attention to Stephen Pryde, and Helen he gave but an embarrassed scant look. Hugh’s hand he took in his. He was much affected, and the old voice shook.

“Mr. Hugh—I want you to know—I’ve always wanted you to know—that telling Mr. Bransby about the—about the shortage—was the hardest thing I ever did. But I had to do it.”

Hugh pressed the hand he held. “I know, Grant,” he said cordially. “And you were quite right to tell him.”

“God bless you, Mr. Hugh.” Morton Grant felt for his handkerchief. He thought he was filling up for a cold.

“God bless you, Grant,” the young fellow said, still holding the old clerk’s hand.

Stephen Pryde intervened sharply. “Come, come, Grant, you mustn’t waste time like this.”

“Very good, sir, I’ll—I’ll go at once.” But at the door he turned and lingered a moment to say to Hugh,

“I hope—I trust that everything will be all right for you, sir.”

“That ought to convince you that I am right,” Stephen said imperatively to his brother, as the door closed behind Grant. “You must get away from here now—the quicker the better.”

“But I can’t go now, Stephen,” the younger man pled; “I simply can’t go until—not yet——”

“They are certain to come here for you,” Stephen insisted; “they are certain to do that.”

“But before they can come I will have searched.”

But Stephen interrupted again, more sharply.

“Besides, Latham is in the house. He may come into this room at any minute—we couldn’t ask him to be a party to this. By Jove! no; he mustn’t see you; now I think of it, he suspects something already; he was questioning me shrewdly yesterday. I didn’t like it then, I like it very much less now. The coast’s quite clear,” he said, looking through the door. “Go up to my room—you will be safe there. Go! Go now. I’ll come to you presently, and we can talk things over—arrange everything.”

Hugh Pryde hesitated. It seemed to him that some strong impulse forbade him to leave the room. He looked at Helen, but she seemed as hesitating as he, and at last he muttered something about, “Another word to old Grant, the old brick,” and went reluctantly into the hall.