culminated after midnight in a disgraceful street scene in the Broadway
theatre district.

"The following morning, when I confronted him, he flouted me to my
face, whereupon I virtually disinherited him. Not wishing to turn him
away penniless, I handed him a check for a considerable amount which he
saw fit to destroy melodramatically in my presence. Upon my request for
the return of the securities, he handed me an envelope identical with
that in which the bonds had been placed. I carried the packet to the
bank where it was opened and found to contain not the bonds--but those
letters.

"To avoid a scandal I made good the loss. I learned later, through
investigation, that upon leaving home he came directly to this house,
where he remained for upward of a half-hour.

"Further than this I know nothing of his movements except that he
reentered the taxi and proceeded down-town. At Thirty-Fourth Street,
where the chauffeur slowed down for instructions, he found the cab
empty."

"And _these_ are the facts upon which you base your accusation?" asked
the girl coldly. "You, his own father!"

"To an unbiased mind the evidence allows but one interpretation."

"But his eyes! Oh, can't you see there has been some mistake? His eyes
are not the eyes of a thief!"

"There has been no mistake. A most thorough search of the premises has
failed to disclose a trace of the missing securities. In his desk from
which he took the substituted packet were found several similar
envelopes, but these contained only worthless rubbish--newspaper
clippings of sporting events and the like.

"No, Miss Ethel, when William Carmody left my house that morning he
carried with him those bonds. And he came here, knowing that he was a
thief, with his pocket bulging with plunder!

"As I told you, I know nothing of the relations existing between you
and my son. I only hope that he has gone forever out of your life, as
he has gone out of mine."

The light died out of the girl's eyes and her voice sounded strangely
dull as she replied:

"Yes, he has gone out of my life--maybe forever. He came to me here, to
tell me that he was going away to make good. And I--I was not big
enough to see it. I sent him away with a sneer. Bill is no thief. For
what he has been you are to blame--you and the Carmody money. For the
first time in his life he has a fair chance. He has left New York the
man you made him. He will return the man he makes himself. Oh! If--if I
only