“Simply this,” he said. “He put me where I am. That was tough on you; but I think it has been good for me. It’s a strange thing to have the feeling that you can give men orders which they must obey; and that you have a--a sort of control over them. Dad, do you realize that I have to send men to jail every little while? It’s a pretty serious thing to send a man to jail, when you know you ought to be in jail yourself, in a way. I’ve done some thinking about it; so you see, it’s been good for me. It never hurts a man to think. “The whole thing is, Amos has done me a good turn, sir. I can’t help feeling grateful to him. Can’t help feeling he’s been a good friend to me. And--I want to be friends with him. And I want you to know there’s no disloyalty to you in this friendship.” Chase considered for a little; then he said quietly: “You know, Amos played false with me. Deceived me--deliberately. And tricked me.” “I know it,” said Wint. “It was politics; and in a way, it was dirty politics. But--he’s been square with me.” “I’m not sure,” said Chase, “that the whole business has not turned out pretty well, for you. For your sake, I’m not sorry.” His voice stirred and quickened. “But by Heaven, Wint, Amos is no friend of mine! And some day I mean to break him.” Wint said: “That’s all right. It’s a fair game between you. But I don’t want you to think I’m taking sides with him.” “What are you going to do?” Chase asked. “I thought of meeting his train,” Wint told him. “And--he asked me to have supper with them to-night, to talk things over. I thought I would.” “Suppose I tell you not to?” Wint said wistfully: “I hope you won’t, sir, because--I’m going to.” Chase nodded. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “Well, Wint--you’re a grown man. I shall not try to treat you--like a boy. Not again. I’m leaving it to you, Wint.” Wint said quickly: “I’m glad.” He got up and, without either’s suggestion, they shook hands, and looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. “All right,” said Chase. “I’ll tell your mother not to expect you for supper.” “Try to make her understand, will you?” His father smiled. “Your mother doesn’t always understand,” he said. “But--she loves you, Wint.” “I know....” He hesitated, wondering whether he should tell his father about Hetty. She had been sullen, avoiding his eyes, when she served breakfast. His father, or his mother, had a right to know. Yet Wint could not bring himself to tell them. There would be no charity in them for the girl. And Wint had an infinite deal of tolerance for her. Give her a chance. He would not tell them. Not yet, at least. It could wait for a while. He was conscious of a need to tell some one. Not for the sake of betraying Hetty, but to find some balm for his own soul. That sense of responsibility persisted; he could not analyze it, but he could not shake it off. A strangely haunting feeling, this.... It troubled him acutely. His thoughts dwelt on it all that day.