“Yes, they ran into the room together, and Brooks had presumably just jumped out of bed.  But be that as it may, Mrs. Colton saw him when he shot the old man.  And if he is guilty, why should you defend him?”

Witherspoon got up.  “You are not going down-town, father,” his wife pleaded.  “George, you must not go!”

“I’m not going, Caroline.”  He began to walk up and down the room, but not with his wonted firmness of step.  They said nothing to him; they let him walk in his troubled silence.  Turning suddenly he would sometimes confront Henry and seem about to denounce him; and then he was strong.  But the next moment, and as if weakened by an instantaneous failure of vital forces, he would helplessly turn to his wife as though she could give him strength.

“Don’t let it worry you so, father,” she begged of him; “don’t let it worry you so.  It will come out all right.  Nobody can fasten any blame on you.”

“Yes, they will—­yes, they will, the wretches.  They hate me; they bleed me every chance they get, and now they want to humble me—­ruin me.  Nobody can ever know what I have gone through.  Defend him!” he exclaimed.  “I hope they will hang him.  I suspected him, and yet I was afraid to, for in some way it seemed to involve me—­I don’t know how.  But I knew that the wretches would fix it up and ruin the Colossus.  For weeks and weeks it has been gnawing me like a rat.  But what could I do?  I was afraid to discharge him.  He’s got a running tongue.  But what have I done?” he violently asked himself.  “He took Colton’s place—­held Colton’s interest.  I could do nothing.  Sometimes I felt that he was surely innocent.  But I fancied that I could hear mutterings whenever I passed people in the street, and the rat would begin its gnawing again.  He will drag us all down.”  His voice failed him, and he sank in his chair.  “Ruined!  The Colossus is ruined!” he hoarsely whispered.

“If you would stop to think,” said Henry, “you would know that your trouble is mostly physical.  Your nerves are unstrung.  The public is not so willing to believe any story that Brooks may tell.  The Colossus will not be injured.  But I know that you place very little faith in what I say.”  The merchant looked at him.  “But mark my words:  Your standing will not be lowered—­the Colossus will not show any ill effect.  It is too big a concern to be thus ruined.  People trade there for bargains, and not out of sentiment.  In a short time Brooks will be forgotten.  It is perfectly clear to me.”

“Is it?” he asked, with eagerness.  “Is it clear to you?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Then make it clear to me.  You can’t do it, don’t you see?  You can’t do it.”

“Yes, he can, father; yes, he can,” Mrs. Witherspoon pleaded.  “It is perfectly clear to me.  You will look at it differently to-morrow.  Come, now, and lie down.  Sleep will make it clear.  Come on, now.”

She took hold of his arm.  With a helpless trust he looked up at her.  “Come on, now.”  He lifted his heavy hands, got up with difficulty and suffered her to lead him away.