One thing was clear, at least:  he could stay here no longer as the Cortlandts’ guest—­he had already incurred an obligation which he would have difficulty in discharging.  Yet how could he explain his change of front?  Mrs. Cortlandt, he felt sure, would understand and come to his assistance with good advice, but he shrank instinctively from laying the facts before her husband.  It was a deuced unpleasant necessity, and he detested unpleasant necessities—­necessities of any sort, in fact.  Still, there was nothing else for it, so, conquering his sense of humiliation as best he could, he called up the Cortlandts’ suite.

Edith answered, saying that her husband was out; then, in response to his request, she came down herself.

“What has gone wrong?  Why this face of tragedy?” she inquired, as she seated herself beside him.

“I’ve received my Declaration of Independence.  I’ve heard from my dad.”

A look of quick understanding drove away the smile she had brought him, and her manner was one of grave sympathy as she took the letter he handed her.

She was clad in a crisp morning gown he had never seen, and he thought it became her extremely well.  She looked very cool, very fresh, very much the fine lady.  All in all, she seemed a person whose friendly interest might compensate for many woes.

“Well!” she remarked.  “You do seem to be in trouble.  What does it mean?”

Kirk told her everything without reserve, then showed her the newspapers in his hand.  She scrutinized them with a quiet seriousness that seemed to make his trouble her own.  “After all,” she said at last, “if worse comes to worst, you can prove your innocence.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Nonsense!  Those boys can be found.  What puzzles me is that Locke person.  Who is he?  Why was he followed?  What has become of him?”

“I wish I knew.”

“I can have inquiries made, but it will take time.  Meanwhile, it seems you are safe, so the one important fact for the moment is that you are cast off.”  Turning her bright eyes upon him, she inquired, “How does it feel to be disinherited?”

“Blamed uncomfortable!  I must tell Mr. Cortlandt at once.”

“Let me,” she offered, quickly.  “I would not show any one that letter, if I were you, nor advertise the fact that you are in danger of arrest.  It will be quite enough if I tell him that you have quarrelled with your father—­he is a peculiar man.”

Kirk signified his agreement.

“Now what do you intend doing?” she asked him.

“I’m going to work.”

“Good!  Good!” She clapped her hands gleefully.

“Oh, I don’t want to,” he protested, “but the old gentleman thinks I’m no good, and I’d like to show him he’s wrong.  After I’ve done that, I intend to loaf again—­yes, and I’ll know how to loaf by that time.  Of course, I’ll have to pay my debts, too.”