"I know, I know," he hastened to confess.
"Yes, exactly," said Hunter, his chuckle now indicating a dry satisfaction. "You did it as a duty--as I did--our duties as citizens, Mr. Ward, our duties as citizens, and our duties to the others in our employ--we must make examples for them."
"Yes. Well, it's different when your own boy is selected to afford the example," Ward said this with a touch of his humor, but became serious and sober again as he added:
"And I hope, Mr. Hunter, that this affair will never cause you the sorrow and regret--yes, the remorse--that that has caused me."
Hunter looked at Ward furtively, as if he could not understand how such things could cause any one regret. Out of this want of understanding, however, he could but repeat his former observation:
"But our duty, Mr. Ward. We must do our duty--heh--heh--as citizens, remember."
He was examining the little gilt-and-red band on the cigar Ward had given him. He had left it on the cigar, and now picked at it with a long, corrugated finger-nail, as if he found a pleasure and a novelty in it. Ward was willing to let the subject drop. He knew that Hunter had been moved by no civic impulse in reporting the fact to Eades; he did not know what his motive had been; perhaps he never would know. It was enough now that the harm had been done, and in his practical way he was wondering what could be done next. He suddenly made a movement as if he would go, a movement that caused Hunter to glance at him in some concern.
"Well," said Ward, "of course, if it has gone that far, if it is really out of your hands, I presume the only thing is to let matters take their course. To be sure, I had hoped--"
"Keep your seat, Mr. Ward, keep your seat. It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of entertaining you in my home."
Entertaining! Ward could have seized the wizened pipe of the old man and throttled him there in his shabby green-baize chair.
"Have you anything to suggest?" asked Ward.
"Would not the suggestion better emanate from you?" The old banker waved a withered hand toward Ward with a gesture of invitation. Ward remembered that gesture and understood it. He knew that now they were getting down to business.
"I have no proposition," said Ward. "I am anxious to save my son--and my family." A shade of pain darkened his countenance. "I am willing to make good the--er--shortage." How all such words hurt and stung just now! "Provided, of course, the matter could be dropped there."
The old banker pondered.
"I should like to help you in your difficulty, Mr. Ward," he said.
"I--"
Ward waited.
"I should be willing to recommend to Mr. Eades a discontinuance of any action. What his attitude would be, I am not, of course, able to say.
You understand my position."
"Very well," said Ward in the brisk business way habitual with him.
"You see Eades, have him agree to drop the whole thing, and I'll give you my check to cover the--deficiency."
The banker thought a moment and said finally:
"I shall have an interview with Mr. Eades in the morning, communicating the result to you at eleven o'clock."
Ward rose.
"Must you go?" asked Hunter in surprise, as if the visit had been but a social one. He rose tremblingly, and stood looking about him with his mirthless grin, and Ward departed without ceremony.
XXVI
All the way to the court-house Elizabeth's heart failed her more and more. She had often been in fear of Eades, but never had she so feared him as she did to-day; the fear became almost an acute terror. And, once in the big building, the fear increased. Though the court-house, doubtless, was meant for her as much as for any one, she felt that alien sense that women still must feel in public places. Curiosity and incredulity were shown in the glances the loafers of the corridors bestowed on this young woman, who, in her suit of dark green, with gray furs and muff, attracted such unusual attention. Elizabeth detected the looks that were exchanged, and, because of her sensitiveness, imagined them to be of more significance than they were. She saw the sign "Marriage Licenses" down one gloomy hallway; then in some way she thought of the divorce court; then she thought of the criminal court, with its shadow now creeping toward her own home, and when she reflected how much cause for this staring curiosity there might be if the curious ones but knew all she knew, her heart grew heavier. But she hurried along, found Eades's office, and, sending in her card, sat down in the outer room to wait.
She had chosen the most obscure corner and she sat there, hoping that no one would recognize her, filled with confusion whenever any one looked at her, or she suspected any one of looking at her, and imagining all the dreadful significances that might attach to her visit. While she waited, she had time to think over the last eighteen hours. They had found it necessary to tell her mother, and that lady had spent the whole morning in hysteria, alternately wondering what people would say when the disgrace became known, and caressing and leaning on Dick, who bravely remained at home and assumed the manly task of comforting and reassuring his mother. Elizabeth had awaited in suspense the conclusion of Hunter's visit to Eades, and she had gone down town to hear from her father the result of Hunter's effort. She was not surprised when her father told her that Hunter reported failure; neither of them had had much faith in Hunter and less in Eades. But when they had discussed it at the luncheon they had in a private room at the club, and after the discussion had proved so inconclusive, she broached the plan that had come to her in the wakeful night,--the plan she had been revolving in her mind all the morning.
"My lawyer?" her father had said. "He could do nothing--in a case like this."
"I suppose not," Elizabeth had said. "Besides, it would only place the facts in the possession of one more person."
"Yes."
"We might consult Gordon Marriott. He would sympathize--and help."
"Yes, that might do."
"But not yet," she had said, "Not till I've tried my plan."
"Your plan? What is it?"
"To see John Eades--for me to see John Eades."
She had hung her head--she could not help it, and her father had shown some indignation.
"Not for worlds!" he had said. "Not for worlds!"
"But I'm going."
"No! It wouldn't be fitting!"
"But I'm going."
"Then I'll go along."
"No, I'll go alone."
He had protested, of course, but his very next words showed that he was ready to give in.
"When shall you go?" he asked.
"Now. There isn't much time. The grand jury--what is it the grand jury does?"
"It sits next week, and Eades will lay the case before it then--unless--"
"Unless I can stop him."
There had been a little intense, dramatic moment when the waiter was out of the room and she had risen, buttoning her jacket and drawing on her gloves, and her father had stood before her.
"Bess," he said, "tell me, are you contemplating some--horrible sacrifice?" He had put his finger under her chin and elevated it, in the effort to make her look him in the eyes. She had paled slightly and then smiled--and kissed him.