ry. Here was a man who, in the act of giving him a friendly
warning, had been felled by a brutal and unexpected blow. A hot blush
of shame reddened his cheeks. He was about to speak but was interrupted
by the voice of his father.

The old man seemed suddenly to have aged. His fine features, always
pallid, appeared a shade paler. Gone was the arrogant poise of the head
which for forty years had dominated boards of directors. The square-set
shoulders drooped wearily, and in the eyes was the tired, dumb look of
a beaten man.

"Officer, it seems hardly necessary for me to express my thanks for the
consideration you have shown in coming directly to me with this
matter," he said at last. "Had you been so inclined you could have
stirred up a nasty mess of it, and no one would have blamed you."

He stepped to a small table and, seating himself, produced check-book
and pen.

"I trust this will reimburse you for any financial loss you may have
incurred by reason of this most unfortunate affair," he went on; "and
as for the rest, leave that to me. I have, I believe, some little
influence at headquarters, and I shall personally call upon the
inspector."

The officer glanced at the slip of paper which the other thrust into
his hand. It was written in four figures. He looked up. Something in
the old man's attitude--the unspoken pain in the eyes--the pathetic
droop of the shoulders, struck a responsive chord in the heart of the
officer.

Impulsively he extended the hand in which the check remained unfolded.

"Here, Mr. Carmody, I can't take your money. You didn't get me right. I
start out to knife you for what I can get, an' you wind up by treatin'
me white. It wasn't your fault, nohow, an' I didn't know how you felt
about--things."

There may have been just the shadow of a smile at the corners of Hiram
Carmody's mouth as he waved a dismissal.

"We will consider the incident closed," he said.

At the door the officer turned to the younger man, who had been a
silent listener.

"It's a pity to waste yourself that way. It's a punk game, kid, take it
from me--they don't last! Where's your Broadway Bills of ten years ago?
Stop an' think, kid. Where are they at?"

"My God," he muttered, as he passed down the broad stairway, "how many
old fathers in New York is hidin' their feelin's behind a bold front,
an' at the same time eatin' their hearts out with worry for their boys!
An' folks callin' _them_ good fellows!

"Money ain