Part 37 (2/2)

”It would be a wise precaution, when they dealt with you,” Davies answered pointedly.

Gerald did not resent the taunt.

”But you can't get your money for the note,” he urged. ”It's impossible for me to meet it now.”

”Or later, I guess. Well, I'll have to fall back on the endorser; he's a solid man.”

A look of terror sprang into Gerald's face.

”You can't do that!”

”Why not?”

”Well,” Gerald faltered, ”he never expected he'd have to pay the note.”

”That's his affair. He ought to have known you better.”

Gerald roused himself for a last effort.

”Renew it on any terms you like; I'll agree to whatever you demand. I have some influence at Allenwood, and can get you other customers.

You'll find it worth while to have my help.”

Davies smiled scornfully.

”You can't be trusted. You'd sell your friends, and that means you'd sell me if you thought it would pay. I'm willing to take a risk when I back a sport; but one can't call you that. You have had your run and lost, and now you must put up the stakes.” He took a pen from the rack and opened a book. ”There doesn't seem to be anything more to be said.

Good-morning.”

Gerald left, with despair in his heart; and when he had gone Davies took the note from his safe and examined the signature on the back with a thoughtful air. After all, though money was tight, he might retain his hold on Allenwood if he played his cards cleverly.

During the afternoon Carlyon and Gerald took the westbound train, and the next evening Gerald reached the Grange. There had been a hard rain all day, and he was wet after the long drive, but he went straight to the study where his father was occupied. It was not dark outside yet, but the room was shadowy and heavy rain beat against its walls. Mowbray sat at a table by the window, apparently lost in thought, for although there were some papers in front of him the light was too dim to read. He glanced up with a frown when his son came in.

”If you had thought it worth while to let me know you were going to Winnipeg, I could have given you an errand,” he said, and added dryly: ”One would imagine that these trips are beyond your means.”

Gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything else.

”I want you to listen, sir. There's something you must know.”

”Very well,” said Mowbray. ”It is not good news; your voice tells me that.”

It was a desperately hard confession, and Mowbray sat strangely still, a rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was finished. Then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as possible into the gloom.

”You cur!” There was intense bitterness in his tone. ”I can't trust myself to speak of what I feel. And I know, to my sorrow, how little it would affect you. But, having done this thing, why do you slink home to bring disgrace on your mother and sister? Could you not hide your shame across the frontier?”

It was a relief to Gerald that he could, at least, answer this.

”If you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. I don't want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, I must meet this note. If it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and, although I might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the money.” Gerald hesitated before he added: ”It would be the only way to save the family honor.”

”Stop!” cried Mowbray. ”Our honor is a subject you have lost all right to speak about!”

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