But it was an old and broken man who hung up the telephone and clung to the table for support as he swayed, fighting for courage to carry him through the ordeal he was called on to face—fighting for immediate strength to telephone the man on whom he must rely for present aid. Howard was pacing nervously up and down, when his father and John Hammond, the celebrated attorney, arrived at the scene of the tragedy. He went to his father manfully. “I’m terribly sorry, Dad, to have caused this trouble,” he apologized, “but I—I couldn’t help it. The revolver was discharged accidentally. He—he was a coward to the end—he couldn’t even—fight fair.” “Tell me the entire thing, Howard; just what brought you here, and how it happened.” Mr. Hammond said quietly. Howard told it all as clearly as he could remember. Once or twice the lawyer interrupted him to ask a question, or to have him make some point a little more definite. At the conclusion, he turned to Hugh. “This looks like a simple case of self-defense, Benton,” he said, and his tone and off-hand manner gave rising hope to father and son. “The boy came here to protect his sister’s good name—a fight ensued, Druid pulled his revolver—there are witnesses enough here to attest that,” looking about at the sadly morose lot who so short a time before had been merry-makers. “The boy secured possession of it—it was discharged accidentally, or at the worst, discharged in self-defense.” “Yes—but think of the scandal—” Hugh was not altogether appeased. “That is something we cannot help,” the lawyer replied as his jaws snapped shut. “Be grateful to think you can save the boy! There are a certain amount of preliminaries necessary to go through, and then he can go home with you. Just a moment, before we go—I want to speak to these men,” indicating a couple of officers and detectives who had entered the room. “I must arrange to send Elinor home.” Hugh mentioned his daughter for the first time, although the sight of her, when he had come into the room had almost taken the breath from his body. It was a brilliant commentary on Hugh Benton’s attitude of mind that, as he sat before the telephone at this crisis in his life, maneuvering to save both son and daughter as well as to drown out as much as possible of the scandal that must ensue, that not even for one moment did he think of calling his wife to his aid. As he sat there nervously jangling the hook up and down, it was Geraldine DeLacy who was going through his mind. Geraldine! She loved him! She would come to him—would help him through. Only for a moment did the vision of Marjorie cross his mind, and then he dismissed her with a queer wry smile. In this, his time of trouble, he wanted Geraldine. To the woman he loved, and to her only, would he entrust his foolish daughter.