The office was situated on the top floor of the Payson Building. William was the buyer and traveling agent of Mr. Payson’s chain of department-stores. There was only a modest branch store in the home town, but in larger cities there were towering beehives bearing the name of Payson. William had traveled abroad for these stores, and now, in his private office here, he was still directing the foreign correspondence of the firm. It was a position of great responsibility, and it carried a handsome salary and perquisites. Mr. Carter was proud of his son’s advance and proud of his ability to keep up with it. It was his pride in him that made this unfortunate marriage such a bitter disappointment. He passed through the crowded shop, glancing at the long aisles of merchandise and noting the rugs--some of them brought from Turkey by William, others imported by his advice to be sent to the larger markets in the North. At the elevator Mr. Carter encountered Mr. Payson--the rich man who had paid for the singers at the concert where Fanchon had made herself notorious. “I’m going up to see my son a moment,” said Mr. Carter, as they shook hands. Payson nodded, but he did not repeat his commendation of William. Instead, he looked rather odd and spoke about the weather. “Fine for the crops,” he said; “but we need more rain.” Mr. Carter assented. He felt uneasy. There was something odd in Payson’s manner. The magnate got off at the second floor, and the elevator continued its ascent. At the top Mr. Carter got out and hurried to his son’s door. As no one answered his knock, he opened it and went in. It was a good-sized office, furnished in accordance with Mr. Payson’s ideas of business--that is, in the latest and most solid fashion. On a table in the center of the room stood a bottle and a glass, and William Carter was stretched in a chair beside it, lying half on the table, his head down, sound asleep. Mr. Carter stood aghast. He could see the haggard profile and the dark rings under the closed eyes. Worn out with his heart-breaking night vigil, William had fallen asleep; but his father felt that he was looking on the wreck of his son’s life, that William, in his misery, had sought oblivion in the old and time-honored way. XVI LEIGH CARTER had attained the dignity of his eighteenth birthday a few days before the arrival of his brother’s bride. He had done fairly well at the high school, and was preparing now, during vacation, for a preliminary examination for the university which had educated the male Carters for generations.