“Father,” he began without preamble or excuse, “I am in serious and immediate need of nine hundred and fifty dollars.  I want it so much that I ask you to make me a check for that amount to-night, conscious though I am that you have every right to deny me this request, and that my debt to you already passes the bound of presumption on my part and indulgence on yours.  I cannot tell you why I want it or for what.  That belongs to my past life, the consequences of which I have not yet escaped, but I feel bound to state that you will not be the loser by this material proof of confidence in me, as I shall soon be in a position to repay all my debts, among which this will necessarily stand foremost.”

The old gentleman looked startled and nervously fingered the paper he had let fall.  “Why do you say you will soon be in a position to repay me?  What do you mean by that?”

The flash, which had not yet subsided from the young man’s face, ebbed slowly away as he encountered his father’s eye.

“I mean to work,” he murmured.  “I mean to make a man of myself as soon as possible.”

The look which Mr. Sutherland gave him was more inquiring than sympathetic.

“And you need this money for a start?” said he.

Frederick bowed; he seemed to be losing the faculty of speech.  The clock over the mantel had told off five of the precious moments.

“I will give it to you,” said his father, and drew out his check-book.  But he did not hasten to open it; his eyes still rested on his son.

“Now,” murmured the young man.  “There is a train leaving soon.  I wish to get it away on that train.”

His father frowned with natural distrust.

“I wish you would confide in me,” said he.

Frederick did not answer.  The hands of the clock were moving on.

“I will give it to you; but I should like to know what for.”

“It is impossible for me to tell you,” groaned the young man, starting as he heard a step on the walk without.

“Your need has become strangely imperative,” proceeded the other.  “Has Miss Page—–­”

Frederick took a step forward and laid his hand on his father’s arm.

“It is not for her,” he whispered.  “It goes into other hands.”

Mr. Sutherland, who had turned over the document as his son approached, breathed more easily.  Taking up his pen, he dipped it in the ink.  Frederick watched him with constantly whitening cheek.  The step on the walk had mounted to the front door.

“Nine hundred and fifty?” inquired the father.

“Nine hundred and fifty,” answered the son.

The judge, with a last look, stooped over the book.  The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten.

“Father, I have my whole future in which to thank you,” cried Frederick, seizing the check his father held out to him and making rapidly for the door.  “I will be back before midnight.”  And he flung himself down-stairs just as the front door opened and Wattles stepped in.