"Why--Reese!" she broke out impulsively. "Can you voice such a thought, after what he wrote there? Doesn't every word of that letter show that he thinks you splendid and generous, that he feels toward you only the warmest gratitude and appreciation? Don't be silly!" "The letter and the newspaper clipping are two very different things, my dear," said Armstrong drily. "I wanted your father to remain in the company as titular president, _causa honoris_; he refused. I could not offer him control of the company, of course--" "Listen to me, dear boy!" Dorothy compelled his eyes to hers, and he found them very grave and earnest. "Get it out of your foolish head, now and forever, that father could feel anything but the deepest gratitude--" "It's not in my head," broke in Armstrong soberly. "It's in yours, I'm afraid." "It's not! Why, the last thing before we left home that day, father--well, he wasn't there when I said good-by, and I found him upstairs, all by himself; and, Reese, he was praying--for us--" She broke off for a moment, struggling with swift-starting tears. "He spoke of you, Reese; he was happy, happy! I've never seen him so happy that I can remember. It seemed that a load was gone from him. And whenever I've thought of how he spoke and what he said of you, it's made me very humble to think that you were mine, my husband--" Armstrong drew her to him, and their lips met. His stab of disturbing fear was quite gone; gladness surged through him and faith, and wonder at the woman who was his. Even the austere Cæsar, men say, once was young. Later that day, Reese Armstrong sat in the hotel lobby, before a glowing pyre of logs that swept the afternoon chill out of the air. He was alone, for Dorothy was answering her father's letter. As he stared into the flicker of the flames and thought once more of that newspaper clipping, he felt a lingering doubt. Somehow it spelled evil to him. The tone of it, the unworded, tacit insinuation of it, held a barb that stung him deeply. He could see how the impression might go forth that he had forced Deming out of Food Products and had grabbed the company. That was not true; yet here lay the hint, very cleverly written. "And written with intent, or I'm a Dutchman!" thought Armstrong. He had not far to seek for enemies; the former directorate of Food Products hated him bitterly enough. He had himself to blame for this, since he had not hidden his scorn and despite of them; he realized now the insolence of his own manner. They would have preferred to let the company crash, rather than be saved by him--but their pride had given way before their selfish interests. No doubt one of them had been behind the publication of this innuendo in a local newspaper. Williams, it might be; that sallow, crafty scoundrel was the sort to do such a thing. Armstrong did not know that Williams and Macgowan were cousins. Few people did know it.