Having become, in a desultory way, a working capitalist, or at least an investing one, Bromley had a number of business matters to be despatched before he could leave town for an indefinite stay. None the less, out of a well-filled afternoon he clipped time enough to go around to the Colorado National Bank where Philip kept his account. Since he was known in the bank as Philip’s partner, he had no difficulty in finding out what he wished to learn. Philip had been drawing heavily on his checking account during the two weeks, and the drafts had all come through Leadville banks. Bromley asked for the approximate figure and gasped when he was told that the recent withdrawals totalled something over twenty thousand dollars. Quartered in the sleeper for the night run to Leadville, Bromley, generously distressed, was still groping for some reasonable solution to the problem presented by Philip’s wild splash into the sea of dissipation--a plunge so wholly out of keeping with his character. Was Jean’s guess that he had found his father, and that the discovery had proved to be a calamity instead of a cause for rejoicing, the right one? If not, what other upsetting thing could have happened between half-past seven in the Monday evening, when he had left Philip in their common sitting-room in the Alamo Building, and the next morning when he had met him leaving the breakfast-table in Charpiot’s? Where had Philip spent the night? And what had occurred during those few unaccounted-for hours to put a look of morbid gloom in his eyes and to make him refuse, almost savagely, to become an inmate of the West Denver cottage? “He’d had a knock-down fight of some sort with that strait-laced conscience of his, I suppose, and it must have been a bloody one to make him let go all holds like this,” the play-boy told himself, balancing on the edge of the made-down berth to take off his shoes as the train began its swaying, wheel-shrilling climb in the snake-like sinuosities of Platte Canyon. Then, as he drew the curtains and essayed the irritating task of undressing in the dark, cramped berth, with the car careening to right and left like a ship at sea: “He’ll find it bad medicine and bitter; but if it will only end by making a normal human man of him....” It was deep in the night, and the train was halted at a mountain-side station, when Bromley awoke, shivering in the chill of the high altitude, and sat up to reach for the extra blanket at the foot of the berth. As he did so, a thunderous murmur in the air announced the approach of the Denver-bound train for which his own was side-tracked, and he ran a window shade up to look out just as the eastbound train, with its miniature locomotive and short string of cars, coasted down, with brake-shoes grinding, to the meeting-point stop.