In the hall George Boult laid a steadying hand upon the poor
boy's arm. "You must bear this like a man, Bernard," he said. "You're not
a child, nor a woman; try to be a man."
"What's he done? What's my father done?" the boy asked. He blew his nose
and wiped his eyes, and made an effort to hold himself upright.
"It's a question of some money belonging to a client."
"To a client, sir?"
"Your father invested a large sum of money for her, then sold the shares,
and did not buy others or give her the money."
"But--he would have done--in time. He--meant to do it."
"Your father has got to prove that."
"My father will do it," with a sob.
"I hope so. There's another matter we need not go into now. Her signature
authorising the sale she disputes."
"My father--will explain."
"Perhaps. He'll be up before the magistrates to-day. I shall attend, and
shall offer myself to go bail for him. They'll probably want two. Who is
there you can ask?"
Bernard did not know. He had not his wits sufficiently about him even to
think. "I can ask my mother," he said. He was sobbing again, fallen limply
against the wall, his face hidden.
"Do remember you've got to play the man," George Boult said. He felt
helpless in the presence of such surprising helplessness.
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