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Updated: May 17, 2025
Worthington's views as to your successor." Wade pushed over a telegraph blank. "Just write out your telegram, and I will send it on at once. You will accept, of course." Randall Clayton had schooled himself since Jack Witherspoon's departure in every defensive measure against the secret plotters. And so his voice was suave and measured as he simply said, "I think, Mr.
This thought did not sting him now; it softened him, made him look with a more forgiving eye upon tempted human nature. But was it money that had tempted him to turn from a purpose so resolutely formed? Had not Witherspoon's argument and Ellen's persuasion left him determined to reserve one refuge for his mind one closet wherein he could hang the cast-off garment of real self?
"I am George Witherspoon." The policeman stepped aside. Brooks met them in the hall. He said nothing, but took Witherspoon's hand. The place was thronged with police officers and reporters. Adjoining Colton's sleeping-apartment, on the second floor, was a small room with a window looking out on the back yard, and with one door opening from the hall.
"Good-evening, Julia," said Sylvia, to Mrs. Witherspoon's youngest daughter, the other lady at the table. "Good-evening, Malcolm" to Malcolm McCallum, an old "beau" of hers. And then, taking the seat which Malcolm sprang to move out for her, "How do you do, Frank?" Frank's eyes had fallen to his lap. "How do you do?" he murmured.
He waited a long time and then went down-stairs. The library door was closed, and gently he rapped upon it. Witherspoon's voice bade him enter. Mrs. Witherspoon was sitting on a sofa; young Henry was on his knees, and his head was in her lap. Witherspoon and Ellen were standing near. "He is like my father's people," the mother said, fondly stroking his hair. "All the Springers were light."
Witherspoon, sitting by his library fire at night, would say over and over again: "I told him never to keep any money in the house. He was so close, so suspicious; and then to put his money in a safe that a boy might have knocked to pieces!" And it became Mrs. Witherspoon's habit to declare: "I just know that somebody will break into our house next."
"No," Witherspoon answered, "let us get to Dura as soon as we can. I've got a fever, haven't I?" DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon's forehead. "Yes, you have." "The truth is, I haven't felt altogether right since the first day after we started, but I thought it would wear off." When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious.
"I don't know how he may turn out," Richmond said, "but I rather like him. Of course he hasn't fitted himself to his position that is, he doesn't as yet feel the force of old Witherspoon's money. His experience has gone far toward making a man of him, but his changed condition may after a while throw his past struggles into contempt and thereby corrode his manliness."
Could I tell him that I would dispose of the paper to some one else? I was compelled to accept his terms. I insisted that he should live with us during the time, but he objected. He swore that he must not be introduced to any of my people to be petted like a dog that has saved a child's life. And there's the situation." Witherspoon's cigar had fallen to the floor.
For I believe poor Clayton left no heir. Even gold can be useless at the last." Witherspoon's temples were throbbing as Doctor Atwater hurried him away to his home. "There is a mystery of mysteries, my boy," sadly said Atwater, "in the strange turn of Fortune's wheel which throws the millions into Francine Delacroix's pretty white hands. "Rouse yourself! We must think, act, and avenge our friend!
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