Presently Mr. Leigh returned He had in his hand a little package. He gave it to Tommy, who took it mechanically. “My son,” said Mr. Leigh, in a low voice, “your uncle Thomas gave this to your mother--one hundred dollars in gold. She kept it for you. She wrote on it, 'For Tommy's first scrape.' It is not my money. It was hers. It is yours. Take it--for your first scrape. And, my son--” The old man's speech seemed to fail him. Presently he went on: “You are in no scrape. Your mother--Well, I have done my duty as I saw it. And, Thomas--” “Yes, sir.” “Remember that I am your father and that there is no wisdom in unnecessary privations. You are not called upon to expiate my--my weakness of character. If ever you find yourself suffering actual want--” Tommy couldn't say what his pride urged. Instead he told his father, “I'll wire for help if I really need it, dad.” Having said what he did not think he would ever do, he made up his mind that he would take money dripping with the blood of slaughtered orphans rather than increase this old man's unhappiness. “Thank you, my son,” said the old man, very simply. “A nautomobile is out there waiting,” announced Maggie. “Tell the man to take the trunk,” Tommy told her. Then to the old man: “Well, dad, it's good-by now. I'll write--often.” He held out his hand. Mr. Leigh came toward his son. His face was grim but his outstretched hand trembled. “Good-by, my son! Good-by.” He grasped both Tommy's hands in his and gripped them tightly. Then his voice broke and he said, huskily: “My son! My son!” “Dad!” said Tommy, his eyes full of tears. “Oh, dad! It will be all right! It's all right!” Mr. Leigh released his son's hands and walked away. Maggie came in and said, “Good-by, Master Thomas.” “Good-by, Maggie,” said Tommy. Then he threw his arms about her neck and kissed her on her cheeks. “Take care of him, Maggie. If--anything happens telegraph me. I'll send you my address.” “What can happen? He's as strong as he ever was,” said Maggie, calmly. Tommy went up-stairs to the library, where he was sure his father had gone. Through the open door he saw his father pacing up and down the room. He was shaking his head as men do when they are arguing with themselves, and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Thomas F. Leigh turned on his heels and walked down the stairs very quietly. He had entered into his new life. It was a life of bitter loneliness. He could have no friends, because his secret could not be shared. He felt the loneliness in advance. It almost overwhelmed him. In the hall, as his hand grasped the knob of the street door, without knowing that he craved to hear the sound of a living voice in order to dispel the stifling silence that enveloped his soul, Tommy Leigh said, aloud: “It's up to me to make good!” CHAPTER V