Vivian Ormsby smarted under the blow given him by Dick at the dinner, and burned to avenge the affront. He tingled with impatience to get another look at the dubious check which promised such unexceptional possibilities of retaliation if, as he suspected and hoped, it was a forgery. Dick Swinton, publicly denounced as a felon, could not possibly hold up his head again; and as a rival in love he would be remorselessly wiped out. The young upstart should learn the penalty of striking an Ormsby.

The captain was a familiar figure at the bank, which belonged almost entirely to his father and himself, and he had his private room there, where he appeared at intervals. Now, Ormsby sat at his desk in the manager’s room. He rang the bell and ordered the check to be brought to him once more. Then, he asked for Herresford’s pass-book, and any checks in the old man’s handwriting that were available. He displayed renewed eagerness in comparing the handwriting in the body of the check with others of a recent date. The result of his scrutiny was evidently interesting, as with his magnifying 51 glass he once more examined every stroke made by Mrs. Swinton’s spluttering pen.

The color of the ink used by the forger was not the same as that in the signature. It had darkened perceptibly and swiftly. An undoubted forgery!

It was beyond imagination that Mrs. Swinton, the wife of the rector, could stoop to a fraud. Surely, only a man would write heavily and thickly like that. It was a clumsy alteration.

Dick Swinton had tampered with his grandfather’s figures. Well, what then? Would the old man thank his banker for making an accusation of criminality against his grandson? Herresford might be a mean man, but the honor of his name was doubtless dear to him.

What would come of a public trial? Obviously, Dick Swinton would be disinherited and disgraced. The banker knew that it was his duty to proceed at once, if he detected a fraud. But it was not the way of Mr. Vivian Ormsby to act in haste—and it was near the hour for luncheon, to which he had been invited by Colonel Dundas. To-morrow, he could, if advisable, openly discover flaws in the check, and it would then be better if action were taken by his manager, and not by himself.

Dora had been very sweet and kind to him—before Dick came along. Vivian had gone so far as to consult his father about a proposal of marriage to 52 the rich colonel’s daughter. They were cautious people, the Ormsbys, and made calculations in their love-affairs as in their bank-books. The old banker approved, and Vivian had hoped that Dora would accept him before he went away. He knew that Dick Swinton stood in his path; but, if he could drag his rival down, it was surely fair and honorable to do so before Dora could commit herself to any sentimental relationship with a criminal.

Ormsby took the chauffeur’s seat in his waiting automobile, and drove as fast as the traffic would permit, for he feared lest he might be late. His pace in the upper part of Fifth avenue was far beyond anything the law permitted. As he reached Eighty-eighth street, in which was Colonel Dundas’s house, he hardly slackened speed as he swung around the corner. And there, just before him, a group of children playing stretched across the street. Instantly, Ormsby applied the emergency brake. The huge machine jarred abruptly to a standstill—so abruptly that both Ormsby and his chauffeur in the seat beside him were hurled out. The chauffeur scrambled to his feet after a moment, for he had escaped serious injury, but the banker lay white and motionless on the pavement before Colonel Dundas’s door.

When the physician was asked to give his opinion some time later, he expressed a belief that the 53 patient would live, but he certainly would not go to the war. In the meantime, he could not be moved. He must remain where he was—in Dora’s tender care.

And Dick was going to the war!

The bright morning sunlight was streaming in at the window of the rector’s study, sunlight which pitilessly showed up patches of obliterated pattern in the carpet and sorry signs of wear in the leather chairs. A glorious morning; one of those rare days which go to make the magic of spring; a day when all the golden notes in the landscape become articulate as they vibrate to the caress of the soft, warm air.

The rector was only dimly conscious of its rare beauty; for his face was troubled as he paced his study, with head bent and hands behind his back. Between his fingers was a letter which had sent the blood of shame tingling to the roots of his hair, a letter that would also hurt his wife—and this meant a great deal to John Swinton. He was an emotional, demonstrative man, who loved his wife with all the force of his nature, and he would have gone through fire and water for her dear sake, asking no higher reward than a smile of gratitude.

The trouble was once more money—the bitterness of poverty, fresh-edged and keen. He must 54 again, as always, appeal to his wife for help, and she would have to beg again from her father. The knowledge maddened him, for he had endured all that a man may endure at the hands of Herresford.

The letter was short and emphatic:

Sir, I am requested by my client, Mr. Isaac Russ, to inform you that if your son attempts to leave the state before his obligations to my client ($750.00) are paid in full, he will be arrested.

Yours truly,

William Wise.

This was not the only trouble that the post had brought. On the table lay a communication from his bishop, a kindly, earnest letter from man to man, warning him that he must immediately settle with a certain stockbroker, who had lodged a complaint against him, or run the risk of a public prosecution, which would mean ruin.

In his various troubles, he had almost forgotten the stockbroker to whom he gave orders to purchase shares weeks ago, orders faithfully carried out. The shares were now his, but a turn of the market had made them quite worthless. Nevertheless, they must be paid for.

He sighed heavily as he pocketed the bishop’s letter. His affairs were in a more hopeless tangle than he had imagined. Seven hundred and fifty for Dick, and a thousand for the broker—seventeen hundred 55 and fifty dollars more to be raised at once; and the two thousand just received from Herresford all gone.

Netty entered the room at the moment.

“Ah, here you are, father!” she cried, going over to the hearthrug and dropping down before the fire. “Why didn’t you come in to breakfast? Didn’t you hear the gong? Dick went off at eight, and I’ve had to feed all alone. The bacon is cold by now, I expect; but go and have some. I’ll wait here for you. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“I don’t want any breakfast, my child. I want to have a talk with you. It’s a long time since we had a chat, Netty. You’re getting almost as much a social personage as your mother. Very soon, there’ll be no one to keep the house warm, except the old man.”

“You mustn’t call yourself old. You’re not even respectably middle-aged. But what do you want to talk to me about?”

“Money, my dear, money.”

“Money! Oh, dear! no—nothing so horrid. This is a red-letter day for me; and, when you talk about money, it turns everything gray.”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not a pleasant subject; but, you see, we must talk about it, sometimes. You’ve been attending to the house-keeping lately, and I want you to try and cut down the expenses. I’ve had bad news this morning, news which I shall have 56 to worry your mother about. By the way, what is she doing now?”

“I hope she’s asleep. You mustn’t worry her, you really mustn’t. She’s had a dreadful night, and her head’s awful—and you mustn’t worry me. The house-keeping is all right. It worried me, I hate it so. Jane’s doing it, and she’s more than careful—she’s mean. And, now, my news. Can’t you guess it? No, you’ll never guess. Look!” the girl held out her hand.

“And what am I to look at?”

“Can’t you see?—the ring! It’s been in his family hundreds of years; but it’s nothing compared to the other jewels; they are magnificent, worth a king’s ransom. Why don’t you say something—something nice and pretty and appropriate? You know you can make awfully nice speeches when you like, father—and I’m waiting for congratulations.”

“Congratulations on having received a present? And who gave it to my Persian?” asked the rector, absently.

“Who gave it to me? It’s my engagement ring. Harry and I settled everything last night.”

“Harry?”

“I’m going to marry Harry Bent. You surely must have expected it. That’s why you are not to talk about anything unpleasant or ugly to-day. If you do, it’ll make me wretched, and I don’t want to 57 be wretched. I’m going to have a lovely time for always and always.”

“God grant it,” murmured the rector, with fervor; “but don’t forget that life has its responsibilities and its dull patches; don’t expect too much, my little girl. The rosy dawn doesn’t always maintain its promise. But we mustn’t begin the Sunday sermon to-day, eh, Persian? And now, run away, for I must be quiet to think over what you have told me. It’s a surprise, dear child, but, if it means your happiness, it’s a glad surprise. By-the-bye, you’re quite sure you’re in love, little girl?”

“Silly old daddy, of course I am. He’s an awfully good boy, and, when his uncle dies, he’ll be immensely rich. It’s a splendid match, and you ought to be very pleased about it. Ah, here’s mother!” she cried, scrambling to her feet as Mrs. Swinton, dressed for driving in a perfect costume of blue, entered the study. “Now, you can both talk about it instead of your horrid money,” and, throwing a kiss lightly to her father, she tripped out of the room.

“You don’t look well, Mary,” exclaimed the rector anxiously, as his wife sank down into a chair by the fire. “Another headache?” He rested his hand lovingly on her shoulder. “You are overdoing it, dearest. You must slow down and live the normal, dull life of a clergyman’s wife.”

“Don’t, Jack, don’t! I’m frightfully worried. 58 What was it you and Netty were talking about?”

“Ah, what indeed! The child tells me she is engaged to Harry Bent, and that you know all about it.”

“Yes. I’ve seen that he wanted her for months past; and she likes him, after a fashion. She’ll never marry for love—never love anybody better than herself, I fear; and, since he’s quite willing to give more than he receives, I see nothing against their engagement, except—except our dreadful financial position.”

Mrs. Swinton spoke wearily. “We will discuss Netty later,” she continued, “for I have something of the utmost importance to talk over with you. I must have a thousand dollars by Friday, and, if you haven’t sent off that check to the builder of the Mission Hall, you must let it stand over. No, no, don’t shake your head like that. I only want the money for a day or so, until I can see father, and get another check from him. But, in the meantime, I must have the money. It means dreadful trouble, if I can’t have it.”

“Mary, Mary, what are you saying! I can’t let you have the money. I sent it away two days ago. I was afraid to hold it. Your plight can’t be worse than mine, Mary,” he groaned. “God help me, I didn’t mean to tell you, but perhaps it’s best, after 59 all, that you should know everything—for it will make the parting with Dick less hard.”

“With Dick? What has your trouble got to do with Dick? Tell me quickly—tell me,” and her voice dropped to a sobbing whisper. She was terribly overwrought, and ready to expect anything.

“I’ve had a letter threatening his arrest.”

“Arrest!” she cried, starting up. Her voice was a chord of fear.

“A money-lender intends to arrest him, if he attempts to leave the state—that is, unless I’m prepared to pay a debt of seven hundred and fifty dollars. I,” added the rector, in a broken voice, “a man without a penny in the world—a spendthrift, a muddler, a borrower, a man dependent upon the bounty of others.”

“Hush, John, hush!” cried his wife, coming closer to him. “You are not to blame. Your life is one long sacrifice to others. It is I who am wrong—oh! so wrong! But it shall all be different soon. I will stand by you and help you. No one shall be able to say that you work alone in the future. I’ll live your life, dear. Only let us get out of this awful tangle, and all will be right. I’ll go to father again, and tell him just how things stand; and, if he won’t give me the money, he shall lend it to me. It will be ours some day. It is ours—it 60 ought to be ours. He can’t refuse—he shall not!”

She turned to pace the room feverishly for a few moments, then, going over to her husband again, she linked her arm affectionately in his. “It will be all right. Our luck must surely change, John. I feel it in my bones—not that there is any sign of it to-day. How can they arrest Dick if he goes to the war?”

“Oh! It’s some legal technicality. I don’t understand it. I’ve heard of it before. Some judgment has been given against him, and the money-lender has power to make him pay with the first cash he gets, or something of that kind. They’ve found out that he’s been paying other people, I suppose.”

“Arrest him! What insolence! As if we hadn’t enough trouble of our own without Dick’s affairs crippling us at such a time. He absolutely must go—especially after the things that cad Ormsby insinuated.”

“But how about your own trouble, darling? Why must you have a thousand dollars?”

“Well, it’s an awful matter. You see, I have rather a big bill with a dressmaker, and I wanted some more new frocks for the Ocklebournes’ parties. She has refused to give me any more credit without security, so I left some jewelry with her—old-fashioned stuff that I never wear.”

“But, my darling, that was practically raising money on heirlooms. Your father distinctly warned 61 you that the jewels were only lent. They are his, not yours.”

“John, how can you side with father in that way? They are mine, of course they are. I’m not pawning them. They are just security, that’s all.”

“It is the same thing, dear one. You certainly ought to get them back.”

“It isn’t a question of getting them back, John. The woman threatens to sell them, unless I can let her have a thousand dollars.”

“Such a sum is out of the question. You must persuade the woman to wait.”

“That is why I was going up to town to-day. But my debt far exceeds that sum.”

“By how much?”

The rector rarely demanded any details of his wife’s money-affairs, or troubled how she spent her private income. But the time for ceremony was past. There was a haggard perplexity in his look, and an expression of fear in his eyes.

“Nearly two thousand, John.”

“For dresses—only dresses?”

With a sigh, the rector dropped into his chair. After a moment’s despondency, he commenced to make calculations on his blotting-pad, while Mary stood looking out of the window, crying a little and shaping a new resolve. It was useless to go to her dressmaker with empty hands, and the everlasting 62 cry for money could only be silenced by the one person who held it all—her father.

Once more, rage against him surged up in her heart, and she relieved her pent-up feelings in the usual way.

“Oh, it is shameful, shameful! Father is to blame—father! He’s driving us to ruin. There’s nothing too bad one can say about him. He deserves to be robbed of his miserly hoard.”

“Hush, hush, dearest,” murmured the rector; “your father’s money is his own, not ours. If he were to find out that you had pledged your jewels, there’s no knowing what he might not do.”

“Do! What could he do?” she replied, with a mirthless laugh. “A man can’t prosecute his own child.”

“Some men can, and do. Your father is just the sort to outrage all family sentiment, and defy public opinion.”

“You don’t think that!” she cried, turning around on him very suddenly, with a terrified look in her eyes.

They were interrupted by a tap at the door.

“A gentleman to see you, sir; at least, sir, to see Mr. Dick.” The manservant’s manner was halting and embarrassed.

“What does he want with Mr. Dick?”

“Well, sir, he says—” 63

“Well, what does he say?”

The man looked at his master and mistress hesitatingly, as though he would rather not speak. “He says, sir—”

“Well?”

“That he has come to arrest him—but he would like to see you first.”

“There must be some mistake. Send him in.”

A thick-set, burly, bearded man entered, hat in hand, bowed curtly to the rector, and endeavored to bow more ceremoniously to Mrs. Swinton, who stood glaring at him in fear.

“Why have you come?” asked the rector.

“Well, there’s a warrant. It has been reported he was going to skip.”

“Why have you come so soon? I only received Wise’s letter this morning.”

“It was sent the day before yesterday.”

The rector picked up the letter, and found that it was dated two days ago.

“There was evidently a delay in transmission. What are we to do?” asked the clergyman, turning to his wife despairingly.

She stood white and irresolute. It was a most humiliating moment. She longed to call her manservant to turn the fellow out of doors, but she dared not.

“My instructions were to give reasonable time, 64 and not to proceed with the arrest if there was any possibility of the money being forthcoming, or a part of it, not less than two hundred and fifty—cash.”

“Can you wait till this evening?” pleaded the rector, hopelessly, “while I see what can be done. You’ve taken me at a disadvantage. My son is not here now. He won’t be back till after midday.”

“If there is any likelihood of your being able to do anything by evening, of course—”

“He’ll wait. He must wait,” cried Mrs. Swinton, taking up her muff. “I’ll have to see father about it.”

“You must wait till this evening, my man.”

“All right, then. Until six o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, six o’clock,” the man agreed, and withdrew.

“I can’t bear to think of your going to your father again, Mary,” sighed the rector, bitterly. “Dick has been a shocking muddler in his affairs—as bad as his father, without his father’s excuse. God knows, I’ve been too busy with parish affairs to attend properly to my own, whereas he—”

“He is young, John,” pleaded the indulgent mother, “and ought to be in receipt of a handsome allowance from his grandfather. He has only been spending what really should be his.” 65

“Sophistry, my darling, sophistry!”

“At any rate, I’m going up to my father to get money from him, by hook or by crook. We must have it, or we are irretrievably ruined.”