The Desired Woman | Page 5

head, and I
refused to listen to a word against him. But you see how it ended."
"I wish I could help you," Saunders said again, "but I don't see what I
can do."
"I don't either." The old man sighed heavily as he got up. "Everybody

tells me I am a fool to cry over spilt milk when even the law won't back
me; but I'm getting close to the end, and somehow I can't put my mind
on anything else." He laid his disengaged hand on Saunders's shoulder
almost with the touch of a parent. "I'll say one thing more, and then I'm
gone. You've done me good this morning--that is, some. I don't feel
quite so--so hurt inside. It's because you offered to--to trust me. I won't
forget that soon, Saunders, and I'm not going to come in here any more.
If I have to see him I will meet him somewhere else. Good-by."
Saunders watched the bent form shamble between the counters and
desks and disappear.
"Poor old chap!" he said. "The shame of his lack of judgment is killing
him."
Just then the door of Mostyn's office opened, and Mostyn himself came
out. He paused over an electric adding-machine which was being
manipulated by a clerk, gave it an idle glance, and then came on to his
partner.
"Albert says old Henderson was here talking to you," he said, coldly. "I
suppose it's the old complaint?"
"Yes," Saunders nodded, as he looked up. "I did what I could to pacify
him; he is getting into a bad mental shape."
"He seems to be growing worse and worse." Mostyn went on, irritably.
"I heard he had actually threatened my life. I don't want to take steps to
restrain him, but I'll have to if he keeps it up. I can't afford to have him
slandering me on every street-corner as he is doing. Every business
man knows I was not to blame in that deal. The courts settled that for
good and all."
Saunders made no comment. He fumbled a glass paper-weight with one
hand and tugged at his brown mustache with the fingers of the other.
Mostyn stared into his calm eyes impatiently.
"What do you think I ought to do?" he finally asked.

"I am in no position to say," Saunders answered, awkwardly. "It is a
matter for you to decide. His condition is really pitiful. His family seem
to be in actual need. Girls brought up as his daughters were brought up
don't seem to know exactly how to make a living."
"Well, I can't pay money back to him," Mostyn said, angrily. "I'd make
an ass of myself, and admit my indebtedness to many others who
happened to lose in that mill. His suit against me cost me several
thousand dollars, and he has injured me in all sorts of ways with his
slanderous tongue. He'll have to let up. I won't stand it any longer."
Therewith Mostyn turned and went back to his office. Closing the door
behind him, he started to throw himself on the lounge, but instead sat
down at his desk, took up a pen and drew some paper to him. "I'll write
Tom Drake and ask him if he has room for me," he said. "Up there in
the mountains I'll throw the whole thing off and take a good rest."
CHAPTER II

J. Cuyler Mitchell got out of his landau in the porte cochere of his
stately residence on Peachtree Street, and, aided by his gold-headed
ebony cane, ascended the steps of the wide veranda, where he stood
fanning his face with his Panama hat. Larkin, the negro driver, glanced
over his shoulder after him.
"Anything mo', Marse John?" he inquired.
"No, I'm through with the horses for to-day," the old man returned. "Put
them up, and rub them down well."
As the landau moved along the curving drive to the stables in the rear
Mitchell sauntered around to the shaded part of the veranda and went in
at the front door. He was tall, seventy-five years of age, slender and
erect, had iron-gray hair and a mustache and pointed goatee of the same
shade. He was hanging his hat on the carved mahogany rack in the hall
when Jincy, a young colored maid, came from the main drawing-room

on the right. She had a feather duster in her hand and wore a turban-
like head-cloth, a neat black dress, and a clean white apron.
"Where is Irene?" he inquired.
The maid was about to answer when a response came from above.
"Here I am, father," cried Miss Mitchell. "Can't you come up here? I've
been washing my hair; I've left it loose to dry. There is more breeze up
here."
"If you want to see me you'll