egun to shape his own life in
the picture of his father's, investing him with attributes essentially
divine. John Harper Drennen was a great man; the boy made of him an
infallible hero who should have been a demigod in face of the crisis.
And when that crisis came his demigod fled before it, routed by the
vengeance seeking him.

Young Drennen had struck a man in the face for breaking the news to him
and had felt a virtuous glow as he called the man "Liar!" He
experienced a double joy upon him, the lesser one of his militant
manhood, the greater of realising that it had been granted him, even in
a small way, to fight a bit of his father's battle. He had gone out
upon the street and a newsboy's paper, thrust to him, offered him the
glaring lie in great black letters for a penny. He had torn the thing
across, flinging it away angrily. There would be a libel suit
to-morrow and such an apology as this editorial cur had never dreamed
he had it in him to write. He heard men talk of it in the subway and
laugh, and saw them turn wondering eyes to meet his glare. He made
short his trip home, anxious to enlist under his father's standard,
thrilled with the thought of gripping his father's hand.

When he found that his father, who should have returned two days ago
from a trip to Chicago had not come back, he despatched a telegram to
the lake city. The telegram was returned to him in due course of time;
his father was not in Chicago and had not been there recently. He
wired Boston, Washington, Philadelphia. His father was at none of his
hotels in any of these cities. The boy prepared himself in calm, cold
anger to wait for his father's return. But John Harper Drennen had
never returned.

During the week which dragged horribly, he refused to read the papers.
They were filled with such lies as he had no stomach for. Only the
knowledge that the older Drennen was eminently capable to cope with his
own destiny and must have his own private reasons for allowing this
hideous scandal to continue unrefuted, held him back from bursting into
more than one editorial room to wreak physical, violent vengeance
there. His respect for his father was so little short of reverent awe,
that he could take no step yet without John Harper's command. Quizzed
by the police, questioned by the Chief, knowing himself dogged wherever
he went, feeling certain that even his mail was no longer safe from
prying eyes, he said always the same thing: