Wayne dined at the Club with Walsh the next evening and told him of the break with his father. Walsh listened in frowning silence to the end. “It’s a mistake; it’s a great mistake. I’m sorry it’s happened.” “There was no other way; it had to come. He had no right to jump me because he’s in trouble. I’m not responsible for all his mistakes; I’m one of them myself and it’s enough. He’s hot because he let go of the mercantile company; he has to find some excuse now for doing it and he says you tricked him into selling. The money you paid him went into the hole without making any impression on it.” “I paid him a fair price and he knows it. The figures were all checked by the audit company. But you had no business breaking with him. I don’t like it. He means to be square; he’s taken his business too easy and now that some of these fancy schemes he’s in have gone bad and the banks are worrying him you oughtn’t to have allowed him to get hot. You oughtn’t to have done it, boy. And, besides, you might have helped him. You must be good for nigh on to eight hundred thousand dollars--all good stuff. It’s all clean. You don’t owe anything, do you?” “No; nothing worth mentioning.” “You ought to help him. It would be the fine thing to do. He’s your father--you can’t get away from that.” But Wayne was not in a mood for magnanimity. Walsh dwelt at length on his duty, on what was, in the old fellow’s phrase, “the right thing.” He indicated concrete instances of what might be done to help Colonel Craighill back to a firm footing. Certain things should be dropped as worthless encumbrances; the real estate ventures would work out in time; various stocks now pledged as collateral should be redeemed. The pledging of half of Wayne’s estate would strengthen his father immensely with the creditors and might save him from ruin. Wayne listened attentively to Walsh; he saw that it might be done, but he felt no impulse to act on Walsh’s suggestions: he was Roger Craighill’s son no longer. “Sorry I can’t see it your way, Tom, but I have my side of the case, too. That row yesterday proves how far apart father and I have been. If our relations had been right and what they ought to be he would have asked me for help, or I would have gone to him. But he’s always taken that high and mighty way about things, treating me as though I were a fool, incapable of understanding. He doesn’t really appreciate the serious trouble he’s in. He hardly admits that it’s a temporary embarrassment; you know his way. No, Tom, I don’t feel called on to do the dutiful-son act and dump down on his desk the good assets I inherited from my grandfather and have added to a little bit on my own account. I don’t owe father anything--not even money. I’ve ordered my cars sent to a public garage; I’m going up now to pack my things.” “The house is all clear; that’s yours.” “Yes,” replied Wayne with sudden asperity; “it’s my own house I’m leaving.”