He became aware of a light step on the stair but in the dim light from the single hall lamp he saw no one. A moment later the switch clicked and Mrs. Craighill stood gazing at him as he sat in one of the high-backed hall chairs, his ulster falling loosely round him, his hat on the floor at his side. There was no mistaking the meaning of her accusing glance. “Wayne!” she cried, “what are you doing here?” He rose and clung wavering to the chair, confirming her impression that he was drunk. “I’m all right, Addie. I haven’t been drinking--not a drop. Don’t make a fuss. I’ll go up to bed in a minute. I’m a little knocked out, that’s all.” He shook her off impatiently as she tried to help him out of his coat. “Please run along, Addie. I’m tired to death, and I guess I’m hungry. I’ll get some crackers.” Nothing would serve now but that she must find something for him to eat; and he followed her into the dining room where she lighted the alcohol lamp and prepared to make tea. He protested, as she came and went with things for his luncheon, that far less would do. She moved about softly in her slippered feet, her dressing gown fluttering about her, while he sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, unheedful of her questions. She brought a chair and sat down near him to tend the kettle and waited what seemed an insufferable time for him to speak. Finally she said: “Your father came in only a little while before I heard you. There was a meeting of the directors of the Hercules National to-night. He seemed very much troubled when he came home.” Wayne lifted his head. “Yes; I suppose he is.” “Have the business troubles affected him? He says there is no panic.” Wayne roused himself at this and grinned. “You might be sure father would take a sanguine view of the situation. That’s his way. It doesn’t make any difference what you call it--a panic or a shortage of currency or anything else--the country’s been scared to death and the fright isn’t over yet.”