He remembers that it is his duty to tell the children of this man that Samson Cereal may be dying there in his chair. Heaven knows he looks about as much like a dying man as the human mind could conceive. A tragedy seems imminent, and yet Aleck feels that the fact should not be made known if it is possible to keep it a secret. These people have come here for pleasure--why then should they be disturbed in their search for it. They have no especial interest in Samson Cereal, beyond the fact that he is rich and gives entertainments that it is an honor to attend. The speculator may sink out of sight and his disappearance create but a slight ripple on the sea in which he swims. Aleck has some such idea as this in his brain, as he gently closes the library door, and moves away to find the son and daughter. Somehow the gay scene has lost all its attractions for him. He can remember only the agony he has seen depicted upon the face of the man in the library--the man who wrestles with the pent-up feelings of his soul, now bursting their barriers and flowing over. Among the guests he sees Dorothy, and as he looks upon the fair vision he hates himself because necessity compels him to bring pain to her. If it were possible he would shield her--that is the thought that flashes into his mind, and it proves how far the young Canadian is gone in the realm of love. Now he catches her eye and makes a quick motion with his hand. She seems to understand and, leaving her friends, comes up to him. Upon her face is a look of inquiry--perhaps even a shade of alarm. Of course her first thought is in connection with John. He knows curious eyes must be upon her most of the time, and desires to protect her. “Miss Dorothy, can you be brave to take a sudden shock without showing these people that something has happened?” he says quietly. There leaps into her eyes a swift gleam of alarm. Then she realizes what he refers to and seeks to avoid--pride comes to the rescue. “Yes, I believe so, Mr. Craig. Tell me what has happened. It is something terrible, I know, for your face is so very sober. John----” “No, it is your father, Miss Dorothy.” He has with some diplomacy managed to turn her back toward the good people who fill the room. The music, one of Schumann’s weird creations, rises and falls in sobs and strange, almost unearthly sounds, until it seems to Aleck the elements have united in mourning over Samson Cereal’s downfall. “Tell me the worst, I can stand it. See, I have more courage than you give me credit for, but for Heaven’s sake be quick!” He realizes that there is need of haste, for it must be agony to her, each second’s delay. “Your father has received a telegram--it must have contained news of a distressing character, for I found him in the library, giving way to his emotion and speaking of being ruined.” “Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Craig! My poor papa!”