Jack bit his lip.  Here was another complication.  Not to find Peter at the Bank meant a visit to his rooms—­on his holiday, too—­and when he doubtless wished to be alone with Miss Felicia.  And yet how could he wait a moment longer?  He himself had sent word to the office of Breen & Co. that he would not be there that day—­a thing he had never done before—­nor did he intend to go on the morrow—­ not until he knew where he stood.  While his uncle had grossly misunderstood him, and, for that matter, grossly insulted him, he had neither admitted nor denied the outrage on Gilbert.

When he did—­this question had only now begun to loom up—­where would he go and what would he do?  There was but little money due him at the office—­and none would come—­until the next month’s pay—­hardly enough, in any event, to take him back to his Maryland home, even if that refuge were still open to him.  What then would become of him?  Peter was, in fact, his main and only reliance.  Peter he must see, and at once.

Not that he wavered or grew faint at heart when he thought of his defeat the night before.  He was only thinking of his exit and the way to make it.  “Always take your leave like a gentleman,” was one of his father’s maxims.  This he would try his best to accomplish.

Mrs. McGuffey, in white cap and snow-white apron, now that Miss Felicia had arrived, was the medium of communication this time: 

“Indeed, they are both in—­this way, sir, and let me have your hat and coat.”

It was a delightful party that greeted the boy.  Peter was standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, his coat-tails hooked over his wrists.  Miss Felicia sat by a small table pretending to sew.  Holker Morris was swallowed up in one of Peter’s big easy-chairs, only the top of his distinguished head visible, while a little chub of a man, gray-haired, spectacled and plainly dressed, was seated behind him, the two talking in an undertone.

“Why, Breen!—­why, my dear boy!—­And you have a holiday, too?  How did you know I was home?” cried Peter, extending both hands in the joy of his greeting.

“I stopped at the Bank, sir.”

“Did you?—­and who told you?”

“The janitor, I suppose.”

“Oh, the good Patrick!  Well, well!  Holker, you remember young Breen.”

Holker did remember, for a wonder, and extended one hand to prove it, and Felicia—­but the boy was already bending over her, all his respect and admiration in his eyes.  The little chub of a man was now on his feet, standing in an attentive attitude, ready to take his cue from Peter.

“And now, my boy, turn this way, and let me introduce you to my very dear friend, Mr. Isaac Cohen.”

A pudgy hand was thrust out and the spectacled little man, his eyes on the boy, said he was glad to know any friend of Mr. Grayson, and resuming his seat continued his conversation in still lower tones with the great architect.