"I'm afraid you have bad news from Bison, Mr. Power," he said gently. "Your manager--or partner, is it?--Mr. MacGonigal, has been telegraphing us repeatedly during the past five days; but unfortunately we did not know where to find you. Your mother is ill, very ill." "Is she dead?" Power could only whisper the words, and the other noted in voice and manner what he construed as a son's natural agitation at such a moment. "No," he said, "but she is undoubtedly in danger. It seems to me, from what MacGonigal says, that a telegram from you telling her you are on board a west-bound train will be more effective than any doctor's treatment." Power was shaking as though from ague. He alone knew the frightful alternative that faced him now. If he went to Newport, he would be deserting his mother, who was perhaps dying. If he went to Bison, he was deserting Nancy in the hour of her utmost need. At that instant he dared not, he could not, decide, and the knowledge that he even hesitated was like the thrust of a sword through his heart. "I--I----" he began, and his tongue seemed to refuse its office. "I quite understand, Mr. Power," said the official, an assistant manager, as it happened, and a shrewd and kindly man. "It is useless to think of leaving New York before tonight. Come to my desk. I'll write a telegram for you which will straighten things out. Will you travel by the Pennsylvania and Rock Island Route? I thought so. The train starts at seven o'clock; so you have plenty of time to receive an answer from Bison. Now, how will this do?" And he wrote: "Your telegrams only just opened. Coming by tonight's train by Pennsylvania road. Wire me care of station agent, Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, Chicago, and Omaha. Message today before six will reach me at Waldorf Hotel. Give my love to mother and bid her cheer up." Power muttered what he conceived to be words of thanks. Then, rushing to his rooms in the hotel like a hunted animal seeking sanctuary, he read MacGonigal's earlier telegrams. There were letters, too, no less than three from his mother, who seemed perplexed and uneasy because of the varying postmarks on his correspondence, but made no mention of her illness. Indeed, the last letter, dated only a week earlier, spoke of a shopping expedition to Denver she and Mrs. Moore and the two girls had taken the previous day. MacGonigal, too, was not explicit. "Mrs. Power very ill and desperately anxious to see you," ran one telegram. Another told of Dr. Stearn being summoned, and remaining in constant attendance; but the burden of each and every message was that he, Power, must come home.