A Debt of Honor

“My father’s wealth doesn’t seem to do me any good,” said Victor sadly. “He leaves me to myself, and if it had not been for you I don’t know what would have become of me.”

“It will be different soon. I want you to take the next train for St. Louis with me.”

“That is on the way home,” said Victor, brightening.

“And I am going to take you home. I have some business with your father.”

“But if father will not receive me?” suggested Victor apprehensively.

“Then I will take care of you. You will in that case have to call me papa.”

Victor laughed aloud. Gerald’s bright humor was infectious.

“I will if you ask me to,” he said.

Gerald’s plans were already laid. He wrote to Thomas Hastings to come at once to St. Louis, and three days later all three started for Chicago. There Gerald called upon Stephen Cochrane, the lawyer, who had in his possession the agreement signed by Mr. Wentworth to pay Warren Lane twenty thousand dollars in a certain contingency.

“The promise is outlawed,” said the lawyer, “but with the collateral evidence which you have in your possession I don’t think that Bradley Wentworth will feel like setting this up as a bar to the payment.”

We must now precede Gerald to the town of Seneca, which was his ultimate destination.

A change had come over Bradley Wentworth. He was a man of iron constitution and had never had a sick day in his life. Yet a few weeks previous the grip, which had recently ravaged the country from the Atlantic to the Pacific, attacked him, and though he had recovered from it the languor which usually follows had come upon him in an aggravated form. He found it difficult to attend to his business, and was obliged to spend half of his time reclining upon a lounge in his office.

Those who are seldom sick feel the effects of illness much more keenly than those who are frequently indisposed. Bradley Wentworth found himself depressed in an unaccountable manner. He became alarmed about himself, and feared that he would never regain his strength. What then would become of his property? Where was the boy for whom he had been laboring these many years, and whom he had fondly looked upon as his heir? He was an exile from home, suffering perhaps. Why was he an exile from his father’s house? Because, as he was compelled to acknowledge, he had been harsh and stern, unnaturally severe. For, after all, what had the boy done? He had not committed a crime. He had committed an act of youthful indiscretion, for which he was heartily sorry, yet to save his own pride and gratify his vindictive disposition the father had left the boy to the cold mercies of the world. Suppose Victor should die? What lay before him but a cold and solitary life, without object and without sympathy? Too late Bradley Wentworth lamented his refusal to send Victor money when he wrote for it.

“I must have him back,” he said to himself in feverish impatience, and began to institute a search for the lost boy. But he was without a clew. He despatched a messenger to Kansas City, but he returned without information.

It was while he was suffering from this disappointment, and anxiously considering what to do next, that a servant entered the room where he was resting after supper and presented a card.

“A young gentleman who wishes to see you,” she explained.

Mechanically Bradley Wentworth scanned the card and read the name,

GERALD LANE

“Bring him in,” he said quickly.

“Probably,” he thought, “Gerald has repented his refusal and is ready to enter into negotiations for the sale of his small patrimony in Colorado.”

Gerald entered the room with an easy grace, and bowed to Mr. Wentworth. The merchant could see that he was no longer the unsophisticated boy whom he had met in the Colorado mountains. Still he did not give Gerald credit for the full change which had passed over him.

“Be seated,” he said. “I suppose you have come about the land your father left you in Colorado.”

“No, Mr. Wentworth, I have sold this land, or at least four-fifths of it.”

Wentworth looked disappointed.

“You should have accepted my offer,” he said harshly.

“I should have made a very great mistake if I had,” replied Gerald calmly.

“How much did you sell it for?”

“I sold four-fifths of it for six thousand dollars.”

Mr. Wentworth was amazed, but he gathered strength to say, “Probably you will never get your money.”

“It was paid me in cash, and I have it invested in good dividend-paying bank stock in St. Louis.”

“Then,” said Wentworth after a pause, “I don’t understand what has brought you here.”

“I have some very important business with you, Mr. Wentworth. I have come to ask you to redeem the solemn promise made to my father to pay him twenty thousand dollars.”

“This is all nonsense,” said Wentworth, knitting his brows. “No such promise was ever made.”

“I beg your pardon, but I can prove to the contrary.”

“Perhaps you will tell me how,” sneered Wentworth.

“My lawyer, Stephen Cochrane of Chicago, is at the hotel. He has in his hands the written promise.”

“It is a forgery. There could be no reason for my making such an extraordinary promise.”

“Do you deny, Mr. Wentworth, that you forged a check on your uncle and that my father screened you?”

“Young man, you are impudent. The check was forged by your father.”

“That is untrue. The letters written by you to my father disprove that.”

“Can you produce those letters?” asked Wentworth with another sneer.

“Yes, I can.”

Bradley Wentworth looked amazed.

“I don’t believe it,” he ejaculated.

“Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald calmly, “the letters which your agent stole from me in St. Louis were copies. The originals are in a safe deposit vault in St. Louis, or rather they were there at the time of the robbery. Now they are in Mr. Cochrane’s hands.”

“This is a bold game you are playing, Gerald Lane, but it won’t work. No one can connect me with the forged check.”

“There is one who can. Thomas Hastings, who was paying teller at the bank when it was offered.”

“He is dead!” said Wentworth hastily.

“I think you are mistaken.”

“Then where is he?”