A Debt of Honor

“So you have got back?” he said with a pleasant smile.

“Yes,” answered Gerald.

“I thought Tip could be relied upon. I prefer you won’t cherish any hard feelings on account of the events of the morning.”

“Have you still got the papers, Mr. Standish?” asked Gerald abruptly.

“No.”

“Then I suppose you have given them to Mr. Wentworth?”

“Yes; I would much rather have given them back to you, but I judged that you had not money enough to purchase them.”

“Mr. Standish,” said Gerald composedly, “I wouldn’t give five dollars to have the papers back.”

“But,” stammered Standish, “you said Mr. Wentworth offered you a thousand dollars for them.”

“For the originals, yes. Those I delivered to you were copies.”

Standish seemed transfixed with amazement.

“But the originals? Where are they?” he asked.

“Where neither you nor Mr. Wentworth can get hold of them.”

When Standish had recovered from his astonishment he burst into a hearty laugh.

“The old man’s been fooled,” he said. “Serves him right for being so mean.”

CHAPTER XXX

TIDINGS OF THE FUGITIVE

It was not until Bradley Wentworth was on board the train that was to bear him to Chicago that he drew out the letters which he had secured through the agency of Standish and examined them.

He almost leaped from his seat in anger and disappointment.

“They are fraudulent, and not worth the paper they are written on,” he at once decided. “And I have actually given that scoundrel three hundred and fifty dollars for them. Why didn’t I take the precaution to examine them before handing over the money?”

He examined them again. They might be fraudulent, for the handwriting was not his, but they were word for word similar to the genuine letters which he had written many years since to Warren Lane. The question arose, Who had copied them? Was it Standish? He dismissed this supposition as very improbable, and adopted the theory that the genuine letters were not in existence – that Warren Lane had given these to his son as a record of what had passed between himself and Wentworth.

“In that case,” he reflected with satisfaction, “the boy has no hold upon me. I have only to deny all knowledge of the letters and stigmatize them as part of a conspiracy to extort money from me on false charges. It is worth three hundred and fifty dollars to find this out.”

So Wentworth’s anger was succeeded by a feeling of satisfaction.

“It is better to pay three hundred and fifty dollars than a thousand,” he reflected, “and that was the sum I was ready to give Gerald. On the whole my meeting with this fellow Standish was a fortunate one. I shall destroy these letters, and with them will perish the only evidence of my crime.”

When Mr. Wentworth reached home he found among his letters the following written in a regular schoolboy hand:

“Dear Sir:

“Your son Victor and I are in hard luck. We are staying at a poor boarding-house in Kansas City, and have only enough money to pay this week’s board. I have sent to my guardian for a remittance, and expect it within a few days, but Victor’s money gave out some time since. As I know you are a rich man I do not feel called upon to pay his expenses. I shall have only enough left for myself.

“Will you telegraph money at once to Victor, No. 125 H. Street, and I will advise him to take the money and go home.

    “Yours respectfully,
    “Arthur Grigson.”

Bradley Wentworth read this letter with a mixture of feelings. He had been very anxious about his son, but he was not a soft-hearted man, and now that he knew him to be alive his heart hardened.

“He hasn’t suffered enough,” he said to himself. “If I forgive him too quickly he will do the same thing again. He has dared to disobey me, and he must be made to understand that he has been guilty of a serious offense. This fellow Grigson has the hardihood to suggest that I telegraph money to Kansas City. If I should do so he would probably claim a share of it, and instead of returning, the two would very likely continue their journey.”

Under the influence of these feelings Mr. Wentworth wrote the following letter:

“Mr. Arthur Grigson:

“You have done me the honor to write me suggesting that I should telegraph money to my son, who took the bold step of leaving the school, where I had placed him, without my permission. Your letter contains no expression of regret for this flagrant act of disobedience, and I assume that neither you nor Victor feels any. No doubt you find it inconvenient to be without money, and it naturally occurs to you to apply to me. You may say to Victor that as he appears to think himself independent of me, and has shown a disregard for my wishes, I think it may be well for him to keep on a little longer. I do not feel under any obligation to help him home from Kansas City, since he went there without my permission. Whenever he returns home, and shows proper regret for his disobedience I will consider what I may be disposed to do for him.

    “Bradley Wentworth.”

Hard as his nature was Bradley Wentworth did not send away this letter without momentary compunction. So far as he was capable of affection he was attached to his son. But he was a man who required implicit obedience, and Victor’s flight had excited his sternest indignation. He was a proud man, and was not willing to show signs of softening though he really yearned to see his absent son.

He held the letter in his hands undecided whether to send it or not, but pride finally gained the ascendency, and he dropped it into the box in which he deposited his outgoing mail.

“He will see that I am not to be trifled with,” he soliloquized, as he closed his lips firmly.

So the letter went on its cruel mission.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE YOUNG RUNAWAYS

In a small, plainly furnished room in Kansas City sat two boys of sixteen and seventeen. One of them was Victor Wentworth, the other his schoolmate and the companion of his flight, Arthur Grigson.

Victor looked despondent. He had a pleasant but weak face, in which little or no resemblance could be traced to his father. The latter’s hard nature was wholly wanting in Victor. He resembled his mother, now dead, who had been completely under the domination of her husband.

“I wonder if our letters will come to-day, Arthur,” he said anxiously.

“I hope so. I expected before this that your father would telegraph money.”

“You don’t know my father, Arthur,” said Victor sadly. “No doubt he is very angry with me, and I am not sure that he will send me any money at all.”

“You are an only son, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And your father is very rich?”