The Prince and Betty | Page 9

went to meet him.
"Ah," said Mr. Westley; "come in here. I want to speak to you."
John followed him into the room.
"Sit down," said his uncle.

John waited while he dictated a letter. Neither spoke till the
stenographer had left the room. John met the girl's eye as she passed.
There was a compassionate look in it. John was popular with his fellow
employes. His absence had been the cause of discussion and
speculation among them, and the general verdict had been that there
would be troublous times for him on the morrow.
When the door closed, Mr. Westley leaned back in his chair, and
regarded his nephew steadily from under a pair of bushy gray eyebrows
which lent a sort of hypnotic keenness to his gaze.
"You were at the ball-game yesterday?" he said.
The unexpectedness of the question startled John into a sharp laugh.
"Yes," he said, recovering himself.
"Without leave."
"It didn't seem worth while asking for leave."
"You mean that you relied so implicitly on our relationship to save you
from the consequences?"
"No, I meant--"
"Well, we need not try and discover what you may have meant. What
claim do you put forward for special consideration? Why should I treat
you differently from any other member of the staff?"
John had a feeling that the interview was being taken at too rapid a
pace. He felt confused.
"I don't want you to treat me differently," he said.
Mr. Westley did not reply. John saw that he had taken a check-book
from its pigeonhole.
"I think we understand each other," said Mr. Westley. "There is no

need for any discussion. I am writing you a check for ten thousand
dollars--"
"Ten thousand dollars!"
"It happens to be your own. It was left to me in trust for you by your
mother. By a miracle your father did not happen to spend it."
John caught the bitter note which the other could not keep out of his
voice, and made one last attempt to probe this mystery. As a boy he had
tried more than once before he realized that this was a forbidden topic.
"Who was my father?" he said.
Mr. Westley blotted the check carefully.
"Quite the worst blackguard I ever had the misfortune to know," he
replied in an even tone. "Will you kindly give me a receipt for this?
Then I need not detain you. You may return to the ball-game without
any further delay. Possibly," he went on, "you may wonder why you
have not received this money before. I persuaded your mother to let me
use my discretion in choosing the time when it should be handed over
to you. I decided to wait until, in my opinion, you had sense enough to
use it properly. I do not think that time has arrived. I do not think it will
ever arrive. But as we are parting company and shall, I hope, never
meet again, you had better have it now."
John signed the receipt in silence.
"Thank you," said Mr. Westley. "Good-by."
At the door John hesitated. He had looked forward to this moment as
one of excitement and adventure, but now that it had come it had left
him in anything but an uplifted mood. He was naturally warm-hearted,
and his uncle's cold anger hurt him. It was so different from anything
sudden, so essentially not of the moment. He felt instinctively that it
had been smoldering for a long time, and realized with a shock that his
uncle had not been merely indifferent to him all these years, but had

actually hated him. It was as if he had caught a glimpse of something
ugly. He felt that this was the last scene of some long drawn-out
tragedy.
Something made him turn impulsively back towards the desk.
"Uncle--" he cried.
He stopped. The hopelessness of attempting any step towards a better
understanding overwhelmed him. Mr. Westley had begun to write. He
must have seen John's movement, but he continued to write as if he
were alone in the room.
John turned to the door again.
"Good-by," he said.
Mr. Westley did not look up.

CHAPTER IV
VIVE LE ROI!
When, an hour later, John landed in New York from the ferry, his mood
had changed. The sun and the breeze had done their work. He looked
on life once more with a cheerful and optimistic eye.
His first act, on landing, was to proceed to the office of the News and
enquire for Rupert Smith. He felt that he had urgent need of a few
minutes' conversation with him. Now that the painter had been
definitely cut that bound him to the safe and conventional, and he had
set out on his own account to lead the life