A couple of hours afterwards he was awakened. Mr. Usher urgently requested to speak with him. Sylvester rose, shook the sleep from his eyes, and faced the grim contingencies of another day. He was prepared for this interview with the father, had steeled himself against whining entreaties and appeals to old comradeship. But to see him was an act of common decency, however unpleasant and however fruitless. He sponged his face with ice-cold water and went downstairs to the dining-room. Mr. Usher was sitting on the edge of an armchair, warming his plump hands before the fire. He rose as Sylvester entered, and, putting his hands behind his back, regarded him with eyes more than ever expressionless and red-rimmed. “I had a telegram from my poor boy last night,” he announced in his slow, pedantic way. “I could not come round last night. I have been suffering again lately from my bronchial tubes. My doctor tells me the night air in winter is dangerous for me. I was a prisoner.” “Your health is valuable to you, no doubt,” said Sylvester, sarcastically. “I live for my son,” replied Usher, sitting down again in the armchair. “If I ran risks now and contracted illness, who would stand by my son in his hour of need? Prudence has been the guiding principle of my life. I have profited by it.” He wagged his head and looked into the fire. Sylvester turned one of the straight-backed chairs and sat down, his elbow on the table. “Perhaps you will state your business, Mr. Usher,” he said. “My time, like your health, is valuable.” “All in good time,” replied Usher; “nothing good comes of hurrying. I never hurry.” He rubbed his palms together meditatively, like some colossal and flabby fly. Then he continued deliberately: “I learn from Roderick that he has been arrested for forging your father's name to a cheque.” “For £3,000,” said Sylvester. “Yes. It is a great sum of money. But your father gave it to him as a wedding present. Your father is a generous man.” “Your son confessed to me that he forged it.” “Well, perhaps he did,” assented Usher. “Perhaps he did.” In spite of his contempt for the old man and his pitilessness towards Roderick, he gazed upon his interlocutor with some wonder. Not a shaft of dismay at the disgrace hanging over his son's head seemed to have penetrated the brass-armoured egotism of this placid, unvenerable man. Sylvester waited contemptuously for him to speak. “You are preferring the charge against him this morning?” asked Usher. “I have instructed my solicitor to do so.” “There is still time to telegraph to your solicitor to withdraw it.” “I have no such intentions.” “I cannot let you proceed. I have the feelings of a father.” Sylvester rose, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, stood on the hearth-rug facing Mr. Usher.