“Why, stupid, to return the old man,” answered Wilbur, “and then unload. He don’t know but what Greer still has him.” “And----” “I don’t know what to do, Sophie. What would you advise?” “Keep the old man; remove him to some other place, sell this house, and invest the money in the bonds of the railroad. And, above all things, cut Greer.” “You are a trump, Sophie,” said Wilbur. “You don’t suppose I intend to share with Elmer? Smith engaged him and let Smith pay him. I will have nothing to do with him.” “Perhaps it might be as well,” suggested the woman, “that you led him to believe he was to receive a share of the profits.” “What’s that?” “The old man has awakened,” replied Sophie, going to the door. “You do not wish to see him, I suppose?” “Why not?” “I thought----” “Never mind what you thought,” said Wilbur, “leave me alone with him.” Sophie went downstairs, and Wilbur walked into the parlor. At sight of him the banker was greatly startled. “My son!” he gasped, rubbing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a dream. “You make a mistake, sir,” replied the other, “you have no son.” “Wilbur!” The gray-haired banker fell on his knees and lifted his hands imploringly. “You had a son and how did you treat him? Answer me that, old man?” Hilton Field did not speak; his lips moved, but no sound came from them. “Because,” continued Wilbur, “he married the woman he loved, you drove him from your house, and made a villain of him. Your blue blood revolted against receiving a ballet girl as your daughter.” “You forged my name for large amounts,” said the banker, rising to his feet; “had you not done so, I might have forgiven you.” “Was I to starve while you rolled in plenty?” asked the son. “You publicly announced that I was no longer a son of yours. Look at your work and be proud of it, if you can”--he stretched forth his hands--“they are dyed in blood. The son of Hilton Field, banker, is a murderer and a thief. Tremble, old man, for it is you, not I, who will have to answer one day for me.” Wilbur had worked himself up to a high pitch of excitement, and his father quailed beneath his eye. “I will atone for the past,” said Hilton Field. “It is too late, old man!” exclaimed the son. “I can never be other than I am, a thief, the friend of thieves, a counterfeiter, a forger and a murderer.” “Think of your mother!” “Did you think of her, or did you pay any heed to her appeals when you turned me from your door?” cried Wilbur. “Did you not threaten her, that if she extended any aid to me that you would cast her off? Do I not speak the truth, old man? What do your millions and that blue blood that has always been your boast avail you now? Downstairs are men that at a word from me would take your life.” “I repeat,” said the father, “that I will atone for the past. I will recognize your wife and children--I believe you are a father--and take you back. Think of your sister, how she suffers because of me.”