"I wish I could help you," Saunders said again, "but I don't see what
I can do."

"I don't either." The old man sighed heavily as he got up. "Everybody
tells me I am a fool to cry over spilt milk when even the law won't
back me; but I'm getting close to the end, and somehow I can't put my
mind on anything else." He laid his disengaged hand on Saunders's
shoulder almost with the touch of a parent. "I'll say one thing more,
and then I'm gone. You've done me good this morning--that is, _some_.
I don't feel quite so--so hurt inside. It's because you offered to--to
trust me. I won't forget that soon, Saunders, and I'm not going to
come in here any more. If I have to see him I will meet him somewhere
else. Good-by."

Saunders watched the bent form shamble between the counters and desks
and disappear.

"Poor old chap!" he said. "The shame of his lack of judgment is
killing him."

Just then the door of Mostyn's office opened, and Mostyn himself came
out. He paused over an electric adding-machine which was being
manipulated by a clerk, gave it an idle glance, and then came on to
his partner.

"Albert says old Henderson was here talking to you," he said, coldly.
"I suppose it's the old complaint?"

"Yes," Saunders nodded, as he looked up. "I did what I could to pacify
him; he is getting into a bad mental shape."