"Well, father," he began, with cheery briskness. Then, instantly, voice and manner changed as he took a hurried step forward. "Dad, what is it? Are you ill?" So absorbed had Burke Denby been over the part he himself was playing in this little drama of Denby and Son, that he had given no thought as to the probable looks or actions of any other member of the cast. He was quite unprepared, therefore, for the change in the man he now saw before him--the pallor, the shrunken cheeks, the stooped shoulders, the unmistakable something that made the usually erect, debonair man look suddenly worn and old. "Dad, you are ill!" exclaimed Burke in dismay. John Denby got to his feet at once. He even smiled and held out his hand. Yet Burke, who took the hand, felt suddenly that there were uncounted miles of space between them. "Ah, Burke, how are you? No, I'm not ill at all. And you--are you well?" "Er--ah--oh, yes, very well--er--very well." "That's good. I'm glad." There was a brief pause. A torrent of words swept to the tip of the younger man's tongue; but nothing found voice except another faltering "Er--yes, very well!" which Burke had not meant to say at all. There was a second brief pause, then John Denby sat down. "You will find Brett in his office. You have come to work, I dare say," he observed, as he turned to the letters on his desk. "Er--yes," stammered the young man. The next moment he found himself alone, white and shaken, the other side of his father's door. To work? Oh, yes, he had come to work; but he had come first to talk. There were a whole lot of things he had meant to say to his father. First, of course, there would have had to be something in the nature of an apology or the like to patch up the quarrel. Then he would tell him how he was really going to make good--he and Helen. After that they could get down to one of their old-time chats. They always had been chums--he and dad; and they hadn't had a talk for four weeks. Why, for three weeks he had been saving up a story, a dandy story that dad would appreciate! And there were other things, serious things, that-- And here already he had seen his father, and it was over. And he had not said a word--nothing of what he had meant to say. He believed he would go back-- With an angry gesture Burke Denby turned and extended his hand halfway toward the closed door. Then, with an impatient shrug, he whirled about and strode toward the door marked "J. A. Brett, General Manager." If young Denby had obeyed his first impulse and reëntered his father's office he would have found the man with his head bowed on the desk, his arms outflung.