That day and the next were fearful.  To Vandover everything in his world was changed.  All that had happened before the morning of Geary’s visit appeared to him to have occurred in another phase of his life, years and years ago.  He lay awake all night long, listening to the creaking of the house and the drip of the water faucets.  He turned from his food with repugnance, told his father that he was sick, and kept indoors as much as he could, reading all the papers to see if he had been found out.  To his great surprise and relief, a theory gained ground that Ida was subject to spells of ill-health, to long fits of despondency, and that her suicide had occurred during one of these.  If Ida’s family knew anything of the truth, it was apparent that they were doing their best to cover up their disgrace.  Vandover was too thoroughly terrified for his own safety to feel humiliated at this possible explanation of his security.  There was as yet not even a guess that implicated him.

He thought that he was bearing up under the strain well enough, but on the evening of the second day, as he was pretending to eat his supper, his father sent the servant out and turning to him, said kindly: 

“What is it, Van?  Aren’t you well nowadays?”

“Not very, sir,” answered Vandover.  “My throat is troubling me again.”

“You look deathly pale,” returned his father.  “Your eyes are sunken and you don’t eat.”

“Yes, I know,” said Vandover.  “I’m not feeling well at all.  I think I’ll go to bed early to-night.  I don’t know”—­he continued, after a pause, feeling a desire to escape from his father’s observation—­“I don’t know but what I’ll go up now.  Will you tell the cook to feed Mr. Corkle for me?”

His father looked at him as he pushed back from the table.

“What’s the matter, Van?” he said.  “Is there anything wrong?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right in the morning,” he replied nervously.  “I feel a little under the weather just now.”

“Don’t you think you had better tell me what the trouble is?” said his father, kindly.

“There isn’t any trouble, sir,” insisted Vandover.  “I just feel a little under the weather.”

But as he was starting to undress in his room a sudden impulse took possession of him, an overwhelming childish desire to tell his father all about it.  It was beginning to be more than he was able to bear alone.  He did not allow himself to stop and reason with this impulse, but slipped on his vest again and went downstairs.  He found his father in the smoking-room, sitting unoccupied in the huge leather chair before the fireplace.

As Vandover came in the Old Gentleman rose and without a word, as if he had been expecting him, went to the door and shut and locked it.  He came back and stood before the fireplace watching Vandover as he approached and took the chair he had just vacated.  Vandover told him of the affair in two or three phrases, without choosing his words, repeating the same expressions over and over again, moved only with the desire to have it over and done with.