Bonbright’s feeling as his father left him was one of utter helplessness, of futility.  He had received his father’s unveiled threat and later it would have its effect.  For the moment it passed without consideration.  First in his mind was the fact that he did not know what to do—­did not even know what he wanted to do.  All he could see was the groove he was in, the family groove.  He did not like it, but he was not sure he wanted to be out of it.  His father had talked of individuality; Bonbright did not know if he wanted to assert his individuality.  He was at sea.  Unrest grappled with him blindly, urging him nowhere, seeming merely to wrestle with him aimlessly and maliciously ...  What was it all about, anyhow?  Why was he mixed up in the struggle?  Why could not he be left alone in quiet?  If he had owned a definite purpose, a definite ambition, a describable desire, it would have been different, but he had none.  He was merely bitterly uncomfortable without the slightest notion what event or course of action could bring him comfort.

One thought persisted through the chaos of his surging thoughts.  He must call in Ruth Frazer and explain to her that he had not done what the papers said he did.  Somehow he felt he owed her explanation, her of all the world.

She entered in response to the button he pushed, but there was not the broad smile—­the grin—­he looked up eagerly to see.  She was grave, rather more than grave—­she was troubled, so troubled that she did not raise her eyes to look at him, but took her seat opposite him and laid her dictation book on the desk.

“Miss Frazer—­” he said, and at his tone she looked at him.  He seemed very young to her, yet older than he had appeared before.  Older he was, with a tired, haggard look left by his sleepless night.  She could not restrain her heart from softening toward him, for he was such a boy—­just a boy.

“Miss Frazer,” he said again, “I want to—­talk to you about last night—­about what the papers said.”

If he expected help from her he was disappointed.  Her lips set visibly.

“It was not true—­what they said ...  I sha’n’t explain it to anybody else.  What good could it do?  But I want you to understand.  It seems as if I have to explain to you. ...  I can’t have you believing—­”

“I didn’t read it in the papers,” she said.  “I heard from an eyewitness.

“Mr. Dulac,” he said.  “Yes, he would have seen.  Even to him it might have looked that way—­it might.  But I didn’t—­I didn’t!  You must believe me.  I did not run to the police to have them charge the strikers again ...  Why should I?”

“Why should you?” she repeated, coldly.