* * * * *
My name is William Durrant; I was born in Philadelphia thirty-two
years ago. My family was prominent in Philadelphia society; my mother
a woman of superior culture and a very great social ambition.
I received a university education and then entered my father’s
business—wholesale neckwear. My mother died soon after this, and as I
had no brothers or sisters—or in fact any near relatives—my father and
I were drawn very close together.
It was then I learned for the first time the true state of my father’s
affairs. I can remember perfectly that evening when he had his first
intimate talk with me; it was about two months after my mother died.
“Sit down, Will,” he began. We were in the library of the old Durrant
mansion on Arch Street. “I want to talk to you—seriously.”
We drew our chairs together before the fire and I lighted a cigarette.
“You’re not a child any more, Will,” he went on. “You’re nearly
twenty-six—a man.” He laid his hand on mine with more evidence of
affection than I had ever had from him before. “We’re all alone
now—you and I. There are many things you don’t understand—and I want
you to—for we must be very close to each other now.”