e biography of Henry G. Surface had had, in
that city and State, a quality of undying interest, and the sudden
denouement, more thrilling than any fiction, captured the imagination of
the dullest. Nothing else was mentioned at any breakfast-table where a
morning paper was taken that day; hardly anything for many breakfasts to
follow. In homes containing boys who had actually studied Greek under
the mysterious Professor Nicolovius at Mimer's School, discussion grew
almost hectic; while at Mrs. Paynter's, where everybody was virtually a
leading actor in the moving drama, the excitement closely approached
delirium.

Henry G. Surface, Jr., was up betimes on the morning after his father's
death--in fact, as will appear, he had not found time to go to bed at
all--and the sensational effects of the _Post's_ story were not lost
upon him. As early as seven o'clock, a knot of people had gathered in
front of the little house on Duke of Gloucester Street, staring
curiously at the shut blinds, and telling each other, doubtless, how
well they had known the dead man. When young Surface came out of the
front door, an awed hush fell upon them; he was aware of their nudges,
and their curious but oddly respectful stare. And this, at the very
beginning, was typical of the whole day; wherever he went, he found
himself an object of the frankest public curiosity. But all of this
interest, he early discovered, was neither cool nor impersonal.

To begin with, there was the _Post's_ story itself. As he hurried
through it very early in the morning, the young man was struck again and
again with the delicacy of the phrasing. And gradually it came to him
that the young men of the _Post_ had made very special efforts to avoid
hurting the feelings of their old associate and friend the Doc. This
little discovery had touched him unbelievably. And it was only part with
other kindness that came to him to soften that first long day of his
acknowledged sonship. Probably the sympathy extended to him from various
sources was not really so abundant, but to him, having looked for
nothing, it was simply overwhelming. All day, it seemed to him, his
door-bell and telephone rang, all day unexpected people of all sorts and
conditions stopped him on the street--only to tell him, in many ways and
sometimes without saying a word about it, that they were sorry.

The very first of them to come was Charles Gardiner West, stopping on
his way to the office, troubled, conc