"I'm afraid we have put it off too long," he answered, slowly. "She won't forgive us, and I'm not sure I want her to." "Bob's in trouble. Won't you go to him?" Hannibal Wharton opened his lips, closed them; then, taking his hat and coat, he left the room. But as the old man went up-town his nerve failed him. He was fixed in his ways, he had a blind faith in his own infallibility. Twice he rode up in the elevator to his son's door, twice he rode down again. The hall-man informed him that the crisis had not passed, so, finding the night air not uncomfortable, Hannibal settled himself to wait. After all, he told himself, this was not the moment for a painful reconciliation. As time dragged on he came to a reckoning with his conscience, and his meditations brought home the realization that despite his success, despite the love and companionship of his wife, he, too, was growing old and lonely. During the chill, still hours after the city had gone to rest an automobile drew up to the apartment house; when its expected passenger emerged from the building a grim-faced stranger in a greatcoat accosted him. One glance challenged the physician's attention, and he answered: "Yes, it's all over. A boy." "And--Mrs. Wharton, the mother?" "Youth is a wonderful thing, and she has everything to live for. She is doing as well as could be expected. You're a relative, I presume?" The old man hesitated, then his voice came boldly "Yes, I'm her father." When the doctor had driven away Hannibal strode into the building and telephoned to the Waldorf, but now his words were short and oddly broken. Nevertheless they brought a light of gladness to the eyes of the woman who had waited all these hours. CHAPTER XXIX Adoree Demorest, still in her glittering, hybrid costume, but heavy-limbed and dull with fatigue, paused outside her own door early that morning. The time lacked perhaps an hour of dawn, the street outside and the building itself was silent, yet from Adoree's parlor issued the sound of light fingers upon piano-keys. Adoree entered, to find Campbell Pope, with collar loosened and hair on end, seated at the instrument. The air within the room was blue and reeking with the odor of stale tobacco-smoke, and the ash-receiver at his elbow was piled high with burnt offerings, one of which was now sending an evil-smelling streamer toward the ceiling. Pope rose at Adoree's entrance, eying her anxiously. "Is everything all right?" he cried. "Is what all right?" "The--er--Lorelei." "Oh yes! What are you doing here?" "I suppose I must apologize. You see, I heard the news and came here after the show. When I learned where you were I decided to wait and--and help." "You decided to--help?" Adoree eyed the disheveled musician queerly. "By smelling up my parlor and playing my poor piano all night--is that how you help? What do you mean, 'help'?" The critic appeared to realize for the first time the lateness of the hour. Glancing at his watch, he gasped: