"I'm asking poor Billy to be a man," he said, "while I am less than one myself. Strange! strange!" he muttered, wonderingly, "but I feel as if I shall never drink again--never, never!" With a hand that was quite steady he took the glass to the window and emptied its contents on the grass in the little plot below. Then he began to shave himself, and after that was done he dressed himself carefully. The church-bells were ringing. "Oh, I must save him--I must save them all!" he kept saying. "Something must be done. But what?" CHAPTER IV It was Wednesday night. William Browne had not come home to dinner. Charles looked into the dining-room. Celeste and Ruth were in their places at the table. "William telephoned that he could not come up," Celeste said, as he sat down. "He says he has work to do at the bank to-night." "Yes. I'm going back myself at once," Charles answered. "In fact, I am not a bit hungry. I had something late this afternoon--sandwiches and tea. If you will excuse me, I won't stay." As he rose, Celeste lifted an odd stare to his face, but simply nodded as he was leaving the room. "Don't go, Uncle Charlie," the child protested. "Stay for your dinner." "No, I must go." He came back, bent over her chair, and kissed her on the cheek, and then hurried away. It was eight o'clock when he reached the bank. The outer doors were closed, but a dim light could be seen through a plate-glass window in front. Softly inserting his key, he turned the bolt and entered. "My God! he may not be here, after all!" Charles thought, as he shut the door noiselessly. Then he saw a light in the direction of his brother's private office and went toward it, now more hopefully. He was near the office door when he heard a sound like the hurried closing of a desk drawer. "Who is that?" a startled voice called out. "It is I, Billy. May I come in?" There was no reply, and Charles pushed the door open. The banker sat at his desk in the glare of a green-shaded electric lamp. His face was ghastly pale, and rendered more so by the greenish light that fell upon it. "What did you come for?" he asked, almost doggedly, and yet without a trace of impatience or anger. "Because you didn't come to dinner, and because--" "Because you are still watching me. Say it and be done with it," broke in William, in a tone which was scarcely audible as it rose from his husky throat. "Yes, Billy. That's it. You have scarcely been out of my sight since Sunday morning. The examiner will be here to-morrow. I know how you feel about that, you see. You told me what you wanted to do. I have seen the thought in your eyes often since then. But it shall not be so, Billy. I love you. You are the only one in the world whom I do love very much. You shall not kill yourself, Billy."