Henry Galleon._
The words were written, feebly almost illegibly, in pencil. Peter knew
that Bobby had been, for many weeks, very anxious concerning his father's
health, and during the last few days he had abandoned the City and spent
all his time at home. That letter had come this very morning and Peter
had intended to go at once and inquire. The fact that he had left all
these months without going to see the old man rose before him now like an
accusing hand. He deserved, indeed, whatever the Gods might choose to send
him, if he could so wilfully neglect his duty. But he knew that there had
been, in the back of his mind, shame. His work had not, so he might have
put it to himself, been good enough to justify his presence. There would
have been questions asked, questions that he might have found it difficult,
indeed, to answer.
But now the sight of that letter immediately encouraged him. Henry Galleon,
even though he was too ill to talk, would put him right with all his
perplexities, would give him courage to cut through all these complications
that had been gathering, lately, so thickly about him. "This," the room
seemed to whisper to him, "is your chance. After all, you are given this
opportunity. See him once before he dies and your fate will be shown you,
clearly, honestly."
He stepped out of the house unperceived and was immediately conscious of
the Spring night.
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