Part 72 (1/2)

Between the two men, the situation was now most difficult. Quite instinctively Hal had fallen in with his father's theory that the primal necessity, after the tragedy, was to keep everything out of print. That by so doing he wholly subverted his own hard-won policy did not, in the stress of the crisis, occur to him. Later he realized it. Yet he could see no other course of action as having been possible to him. The mere plain facts of the case const.i.tuted an accusation against Dr. Surtaine, unthinkable for a son to publish against his father. And Hal still cozened himself into a belief in the quack's essential innocence, persuading his own reason that there was a blind side to the man which rendered it impossible for him to see through the legal into the ethical phases of the question. By this method he was saving his loyalty and affection. But so profound had been the shock that he could not, for a time, endure the constant companions.h.i.+p of former days. Consequently the frequent calls which Dr. Surtaine deemed it expedient to make for the sake of appearances, at Hal's hotel, resulted in painful, rambling, topic-s.h.i.+fting talks, devoid of any human touch other than the pitiful and thwarted affection of two personalities at hopeless odds. ”Least said soonest mended” was a favorite aphorism of the experienced quack.

But in this tangle it failed him. It was he who first touched on the poisoned theme.

”Look here, Boy-ee,” said he, a week after the burial. ”We're both scared to death of what each of us is thinking. Let's agree to forget this until you are ready to talk it out with me.”

”What good will talk do?” said Hal drearily.

”None at present.” His father sighed. He had hoped for a clean breast of it, a confession of the intrigue that should leave the way open to a readjustment of relations. ”So let's put the whole thing aside.”

”All right,” agreed Hal listlessly. ”I suppose you know,” he added, ”before we close the subject, that I've ordered the Relief Pills advertising out of the 'Clarion.'”

”You needn't have bothered. It won't be offered again.”

Silence fell between them. ”I've about decided to quit that line,” the charlatan resumed with an obvious effort. ”Not that it isn't strictly legal,” he added, falling back upon his reserve defense. ”But it's too troublesome. The copy is ticklish; I've had to write all those ads.

myself. And, at that, there's some newspapers won't accept 'em and others that want to edit 'em. Belford Couch and I have been going over the whole matter. He's the diplomat of the concern. And we've about decided to sell out. Anyway,” he added, brightening, ”there ain't hardly money enough in a side-line like the Pills to pay for the trouble of running it separate.”

If Dr. Surtaine had looked for explicit approval of his virtuous resolution, he was disappointed. Yet Hal experienced, or tried to believe that he experienced, a certain fact.i.tious glow of satisfaction at this proof that his father was ready to give up an evil thing even without being fully convinced of its wrongfulness. This helped the son to feel that, at least, his sacrifice had been made for a worthy affection. Still, he had no word to say except that he must get to the office. The Doctor left with gloom upon his handsome face.

With McGuire Ellis, Hal's a.s.sociation had become even more difficult than with the Doctor. Since his abrupt and unceremonious departure from the room of death, in the belief in Hal's guilt, Ellis had maintained a purely professional att.i.tude toward his employer. For a time, in his wretchedness and turmoil of spirit, Hal had scarcely noticed Ellis's withdrawal of fellows.h.i.+p, vaguely attributing his silence to unexpressed sympathy. But later, when he broached the subject of Milly's death, he was met with a stony avoidance which inspired both astonishment and resentment. Sub-normal as he now was in nervous strength and tension, he shrank from having it out with Ellis. But he felt, for the first time in his life, forlorn and friendless.

On his part McGuire Ellis brooded over a deep anger. He was not a man to yield lightly of his best; but he had given to Hal, first a fine loyalty, and later, as they grew into closer a.s.sociation, a warm if rather reticent affection. For the rough idealist had found in his employer an idealism not always as clear and intelligent as his own, yet often higher and finer; and along with the professional protectiveness which he had a.s.sumed over the younger man's inexperience had come an honest admiration and far-reaching hopes. Now he saw in his chief one who had betrayed his cause through a weak and selfish indulgence. The clear-sighted journalist knew that the newspaper owner with a shameful secret binds his own power in the coils of that secret. And fatally in error as he was as to the nature of the entanglement in which Hal was involved, he foresaw the inevitable effect of the situation upon the ”Clarion.” Moreover, he was bitterly disappointed in Hal as a man. Had his superior ”gone on the loose” and contracted a _liaison_ with some woman of the outer world, Ellis would have pa.s.sed over the abstract morality of the question. But to take advantage of a girl in his own employ, and then so cruelly to leave her to her fate,--there was rot at the heart of the man who could do that. The excision of the offending ”Relief Pills” ad. after the culmination of the tragedy, was simply a sop to hypocrisy.

Only once had Ellis made any reference to Milly's death. On the day of her funeral Max Veltman had disappeared, without notice. A week later he reported for duty, shaken and pallid.

”Do you want to take him back?” Ellis inquired of Hal.

Hal's first impulse was to say ”No”; but he conquered it, remembering Milly Neal's pitiful generosity toward her lover.

”Where has he been?” he asked.

”Drunk, I guess.”

”What do you think?”

”I think yes.”

”All right, if he's sobered up. Tell him it mustn't happen again.”

There was a gleam in McGuire Ellis's eye. ”Suppose _you_ tell him that it mustn't happen again. It would come with more force from you.”

Hal whirled in his chair. ”Mac, what's the matter with you?”

”Nothing. I was just thinking of 'Kitty the Cutie.'”

”What were you thinking of her?”

”Only that Max Veltman would have gone through h.e.l.l-fire for her. And, from his looks, he's been through and had the heart burned out of him.”

With that he resumed his proof-reading in a dogged silence.

To Hal's great relief Veltman kept out of his way. The man seemed dazed with misery, but did his work well enough. Rumors reached the office that he was striving to gain a refuge from his sufferings by giving all his leisure hours to work in the Rookeries district, under the direction of the Reverend Norman Hale. Ellis was of the opinion that his mind was somewhat affected, and that he would bear watching a bit; and was the more disturbed in that Veltman shared the secret of the great epidemic ”spread,” now practically completed for the ”Clarion's” publis.h.i.+ng or suppressing. Ellis held the belief that, now, Hal would order it suppressed. The man who had s.h.i.+rked his responsibility to Milly Neal could hardly be relied on for the stamina necessary to such an exploitation.