father and I have not talked on that subject, Guy. Are you going up
to see him now?"

Wilton hesitated: "I suppose I am.... See here, Duane, how much do you
know about--anything?"

"Nothing," he said without humour; "I'm beginning to worry over my
father's health.... Guy, don't tell me anything that my father's son
ought not to know; but is there something I should know and
don't?--anything in which I could possibly be of help to my father?"

Wilton looked carefully at a distant policeman for nearly a minute, then
his meditative glance became focussed on vacancy.

"I--don't--know," he said slowly. "I'm going to see your father now. If
there is anything to tell, I think he ought to tell it to you. Don't
you?"

"Yes. But he won't. Guy, I don't care a damn about anything except his
health and happiness. If anything threatens either, he won't tell me,
but don't you think I ought to know?"

"You ask too hard a question for me to answer."

"Then can you answer me this? Is father at all involved in any of Jack
Dysart's schemes?"

"I--had better not answer, Duane."

"You know best. You understand that it is nothing except anxiety for his
personal condition that I thought warranted my butting into his affairs
and yours."

"Yes, I understand. Let me think over things for a day or two. Now I've
got to hustle. Good-bye."

He hastened on eastward; Duane went west, slowly, more slowly, halted,
head bent in troubled concentration; then he wheeled in his tracks with
nervous decision, walked back to the Plaza Club, sent for a cab, and
presently rattled off up-town.

In a few minutes the cab swung east and came to a standstill a few
doors from Fifth Avenue; and Duane sprang out and touched the button at
a bronze grille.

The servant who admitted him addressed him by name with smiling
deference and ushered him into a two-room reception suite beyond the
tiny elevator.

There was evidently somebody in the second room; Duane had also noticed
a motor waiting outside as he descended from his cab; so he took a seat
and sat twirling his walking-stick between his knees, gloomily
inspecting a room which, in pleasanter days, had not been unfamiliar to
him.

Instead of the servant returning, there came a click from the elevator,
a quick step, and the master of the house himself walked swiftly into
the room wearing hat and gloves.

"What do you want?" he inquired briefly.

"I want to ask you a question or two," said Duane, sho