Then at last Clement perceived the direction of his father’s gaze, and he took the alarm. He put aside his reserve, he laid his hand gently on the elder man’s shoulder, and by the pressure of his silent caress he strove to recall him to himself, he strove to prove to him that whatever happened, whatever befell, they were one—father and son, united inseparably by fortune. But aloud, “No!” he said firmly. “Not that, sir! I have given my word. And besides——” “He would be no loser.” “No, we should be the losers.” “But—but it was not we, it was Bourdillon, lad!” “Ay, it was Bourdillon. And we are not Bourdillon! Not yet! Nor ever, sir!” Ovington turned away. His hand shook, the papers that he affected to put together on his desk rustled in his grasp. He knew—knew well that his son was right. But how great was the temptation! There lay the money at his feet, and he was sure that he could not be called to account for it. There lay the money that would gain the necessary time, that would meet all claims, that would save the bank! True, it was not his, but how great was the temptation. It was so great that what might have happened had Clement not been there, had he stood there alone and unfettered, it is impossible to say—though the man was honest. For it was easy, nothing was more easy, than to argue that the bank would be saved and no man, not even the Squire, would lose. It was so great a temptation, and the lower course appeared so plausible that four men out of five, men of average honesty and good faith, might have fallen. Fortunately the habit of business integrity came to the rescue, and reinforced and supported the son’s argument—and the battle was won. “You are right,” the banker said huskily, his face still averted, his hands trembling among the papers. “But take it away! For God’s sake, boy, take it away! Take it out of my sight, or I do not know what I may do!” “You’ll do the right thing, sir, never fear!” the son answered confidently. And with an effort he lifted the two heavy bags and moved towards the door. But on the threshold and as the door closed behind him, “Thank God!” he whispered to himself, “Thank God!” And to Betty, who met him in the hall and flung her arms about his neck—the girl was in tears, for the shadow of anxiety hung over the whole house, and even the panic-stricken maids were listening on the stairs or peering from the windows—“Take care of him, Betty,” he said, his eyes shining. “Take care of him, girl. I shall be back by one o’clock. If I could stay with him now I would, but I cannot. I cannot! And don’t fret. It will come right yet!” “Oh, poor father!” she cried. “Is there no hope, Clement?” “Very little. But worse things have happened. And we may be proud of him, Betty. We’ve good cause to be proud of him. I say it that know! Cheer up!”