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 after a gruff "I'll find them," addressed to Mrs. Stewart at the foot of the stairs. He filled the doorway like a huge and angry obstruction to their plans.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

Don answered, at bay: "He's not here. He's out."

"What's he been doing?" Don stammered a confused explanation of Conroy's misbehaviour, apologetically. Mr. McLean heard him through with a worried glare, blocking the door. "Why didn't you write and tell me what was going on?"

"I didn't know. He didn't let me know. He left me here when he went into Residence. I couldn't afford"

Mr. McLean tossed his hat on the bed, and sat down in a chair that received him creakingly. "He's had too much money," he summed it up. His bulky shoulders sank down on him in a way that gave him an appearance of stricken weariness, and though he kept his eyes fixed on Don it was with a blank gaze that did not seem to see the boy. "Things have been made too easy for him." He fingered his beard, and plucked it impatiently, frowning. "Should have looked after him."

"He—he's all right," Don tried to console him. "It wasn't his fault. The boys he got in with—they led him on to it."

"Does he say what he's going to do?"

"Well"—Don drew a long breath—"I'm leaving college. I quarrelled with father about studying law. I'm going to New York with a friend who knows the city, and Conroy wants to go with me. We'll find something to do there—some work. We're wasting our