Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had just come in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one from the shop below had sent upstairs for him.

"Oh! it's you, my boy!" Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms around Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room. Then something in the boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the tragedy. "Yes, I read it all in the papers," he exclaimed in a sympathetic voice. "Terrible, isn't it! Poor Minott. How are his wife and the poor little baby--and dear Ruth. The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course I'm going." As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.

"Are you ill, my boy?" he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a seat on the sofa. "You look terribly worn."

"We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter," Jack replied with a glance at Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.

"Yes--but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you can tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?--is it Ruth?"

Jack's face cleared. "No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest love."

"Then it's your work up in the valley?"

"No--we begin in a month. Everything's ready--or will be."

"Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all now.

Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he were once.

Yes, it is a dreadful thing to lose a friend. Poor boy!"

"No--it's not that altogether, Uncle Peter."

He could not tell him. The dear old gentleman was ignorant of everything regarding Garry and his affairs, except that he was a brilliant young architect, with a dashing way about him, of whom Morris was proud. This image he could not and would not destroy. And yet something must be done to switch Peter from the main subject--at least until Cohen should leave.

"The fact is I have just had an interview with Uncle Arthur, and he has rather hurt my feelings," Jack continued in explanation, a forced smile on his face. "I wanted to borrow a little money. All I had to offer as security was my word."

Peter immediately became interested. Nothing delighted him so much as to talk over Jack's affairs. Was he not a silent partner in the concern?

"You wanted it, of course, to help out on the new work," he rejoined.

"Yes, it always takes money in the beginning. And what did the old fox say?"

Jack smiled meaningly. "He said that what I called 'my word' wasn't a collateral. Wanted something better. So I've got to hunt for it somewhere else."

"And he wouldn't give it to you?" cried Peter indignantly. "No, of course not! A man's word doesn't count with these pickers and stealers.

Half--three-quarters--of the business of the globe is done on a man's word. He writes it on the bottom or on the back of a slip of paper small enough to light a cigar with--but it's only his word that counts.

In these mouse-traps, however, these cracks in the wall, they want something they can get rid of the moment somebody else says it is not worth what they loaned on it; or they want a bond with the Government behind it. Oh, I know them!"

Cohen laughed--a dry laugh--in compliment to Peter's way of putting it--but there was no ring of humor in it. He had been reading Jack's mind. There was something behind the forced smile that Peter had missed--something deeper than the lines of anxiety and the haunted look in the eyes. This was a different lad from the one with whom he had spent so pleasant an evening some weeks before. What had caused the change?

"Don't you abuse them, Mr. Grayson--these p.a.w.n-brokers," he said in his slow, measured way. "If every man was a Turk we could take his word, but when they are Jews and Christians and such other unreliable people, of course they want something for their ducats. It's the same old pound of flesh. Very respectable firm this, Mr. Arthur Breen & Co.--VERY respectable people. I used to press off the elder gentleman's coat--he had only two--one of them I made myself when he first came to New York--but he has forgotten all about it now," and the little tailor purred softly.

"If you had pressed out his morals, Isaac, it would have helped some."

"They didn't need it. He was a very quiet young man and very polite; not so fat, or so red or so rich, as he is now. I saw him the other day in our bank. You see," and he winked slyly at Jack, "these grand people must borrow sometimes, like the rest of us; but he never remembers me any more." Isaac paused for a moment as if the reminiscence had recalled some amusing incident. When he continued his face had a broad smile--"and I must say, too, that he always paid his bills. Once, when he was afraid he could not pay, he wanted to bring the coat back, but I wouldn't let him. Oh, yes, a very nice young man, Mr. Arthur Breen," and the tailor's plump body shook with suppressed laughter.

"You know, of course, that he is this young man's uncle," said Peter, laying his hand affectionately on Jack's shoulder.

"Oh, yes, I know about it. I saw the likeness that first day you came in," he continued, nodding to Jack. "It was one of the times when your sister, the magnificent Miss Grayson was here, Mr. Grayson." Isaac always called her so, a merry twinkle in his eye when he said it, but with a face and voice showing nothing but the deepest respect; at which Peter would laugh a gentle laugh in apology for his sister's peculiarities, a dislike of little tailors being one of them--this little tailor especially.

"And now, Mr. Breen, I hope you will have better luck," Isaac said, rising from his chair and holding out his hand.

"But you are not going, Isaac," protested Peter.

"Yes, this young gentleman, I see, is in a good deal of trouble and I cannot help him much, so I will go away," and with a wave of his pudgy hand he shut the door behind him and trotted downstairs to his shop.

Jack waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps a.s.sured the Jew's permanent departure, then he turned to Peter.

"I did not want to say too much before Mr. Cohen, but Uncle Arthur's refusal has upset me completely. I could not have believed it of him.

You must help me somehow, Uncle Peter. I don't mean with your own money; you have not got it to spare--but so I can get it somewhere. I must have it, and I can't rest until I do get it."

"Why, my dear boy! Is it so bad as that? I thought you were joking."

"I tried to joke about it while Mr. Cohen was here, but he saw through it, I know, from the way he spoke: but this really is a very serious matter; more serious than anything that ever happened to me."

Peter walked to the sofa and sat down. Jack's manner and the tone of his voice showed that a grave calamity had overtaken the boy. He sat looking into Jack's eyes.

"Go on," he said, his heart in his mouth.

"I must have ten thousand dollars. How and where can I borrow it?"

Peter started. "Ten thousand dollars!" he repeated in undisguised surprise. "Whew! Why, Jack, that's a very large sum of money for you to want. Why, my dear boy, this is--well--well!"

"It is not for me, Uncle Peter--or I would not come to you for it."

"For whom is it, then?" Peter asked, in a tone that showed how great was his relief now that Jack was not involved.

"Don't ask me, please."

Peter was about to speak, but he checked himself. He saw it all now.

The money was for MacFarlane, and the boy did not like to say so. He had heard something of Henry's financial difficulties caused by the damage to the "fill." He thought that this had been made good; he saw now that he was misinformed.

"When do you want it, Jack?" he resumed. He was willing to help, no matter who it was for.

"Before Monday night."

Peter drew out his watch as if to find some relief from its dial, and slipped it into his pocket again. It was not yet three o'clock and his bank was still open, but it did not contain ten thousand dollars or any other sum that he could draw upon. Besides, neither Jack, nor MacFarlane, nor anybody connected with Jack, had an account at the Exeter. The discounting of their notes was, therefore, out of the question.

"To-day is a short business day, Jack, being Sat.u.r.day," he said with a sigh. "If I had known of this before I might have--and yet to tell you the simple truth, my boy, I don't know a human being in the world who would lend me that much money, or whom I could ask for it."

"I thought maybe Mr. Morris might, if you went to him, but I understand he is out of town," returned Jack.

"Yes," answered Peter in a perplexed tone--"yes--Holker has gone to Chicago and won't be back for a week." He, too, had thought of Morris and the instantaneous way in which he would have reached for his check-book.

"And you must have it by Monday night?" Peter continued, his thoughts bringing into review one after the other all the moneyed men he knew.

"Well--well--that IS a very short notice. It means Monday to hunt in, really--to-morrow being Sunday."

He leaned back and sat in deep thought, Jack watching every expression that crossed his face. Perhaps Ruth was mixed up in it in some way. Perhaps their marriage depended upon it--not directly, but indirectly--making a long postponement inevitable. Perhaps MacFarlane had some old score to settle. This contracting was precarious business.

Once before he had known Henry to be in just such straits. Again he consulted his watch.

Then a new and cheering thought struck him. He rose quickly from his seat on the sofa and crossed the room to get his hat.