“My boy!  My boy!”

“I am ruined, mother—­ruined!” He stood gazing wildly in front of him, while the sheet of paper fluttered down on the carpet.  Then he dropped back into the chair, and sank his face into his hands.  His mother had her arms round him in an instant, while the Admiral, with shaking fingers, picked up the letter from the floor and adjusted his glasses to read it.

“My dear Denver,” it ran.  “By the time that this reaches you I shall be out of the reach of yourself or of any one else who may desire an interview.  You need not search for me, for I assure you that this letter is posted by a friend, and that you will have your trouble in vain if you try to find me.  I am sorry to leave you in such a tight place, but one or other of us must be squeezed, and on the whole I prefer that it should be you.  You’ll find nothing in the bank, and about L13,000 unaccounted for.  I’m not sure that the best thing you can do is not to realize what you can, and imitate your senior’s example.  If you act at once you may get clean away.  If not, it’s not only that you must put up your shutters, but I am afraid that this missing money could hardly be included as an ordinary debt, and of course you are legally responsible for it just as much as I am.  Take a friend’s advice and get to America.  A young man with brains can always do something out there, and you can live down this little mischance.  It will be a cheap lesson if it teaches you to take nothing upon trust in business, and to insist upon knowing exactly what your partner is doing, however senior he may be to you.

“Yours faithfully,

“Jeremiah Pearson.”

“Great Heavens!” groaned the Admiral, “he has absconded.”

“And left me both a bankrupt and a thief.”

“No, no, Harold,” sobbed his mother.  “All will be right.  What matter about money!”

“Money, mother!  It is my honor.”

“The boy is right.  It is his honor, and my honor, for his is mine.  This is a sore trouble, mother, when we thought our life’s troubles were all behind us, but we will bear it as we have borne others.”  He held out his stringy hand, and the two old folk sat with bowed grey heads, their fingers intertwined, strong in each other’s love and sympathy.

“We were too happy,” she sighed.

“But it is God’s will, mother.”

“Yes, John, it is God’s will.”

“And yet it is bitter to bear.  I could have lost all, the house, money, rank—­I could have borne it.  But at my age—­my honor—­the honor of an admiral of the fleet.”

“No honor can be lost, John, where no dishonor has been done.  What have you done?  What has Harold done?  There is no question of honor.”

The old man shook his head, but Harold had already called together his clear practical sense, which for an instant in the presence of this frightful blow had deserted him.