One thing Dick knew must be done and got over with. He would have to see
Elizabeth and tell her the story. He knew it would do no good, but she
had a right to the fullest explanation he could give her. She did not
love him, but it was intolerable that she should hate him.

He meant, however, to make no case for himself. He would have to stand
on the facts. This thing had happened to him; the storm had come,
wrought its havoc and passed; he was back, to start again as nearly as
he could where he had left off. That was all.

He went to the Wheeler house the next night, passing the door twice
before he turned in and rang the bell, in order that his voice might be
calm and his demeanor unshaken. But the fact that Micky, waiting on the
porch, knew him and broke into yelps of happiness and ecstatic wriggling
almost lost him his self-control.

Walter Wheeler opened the door and admitted him.

"I thought you might come," he said. "Come in."

There was no particular warmth in his voice, but no unfriendliness. He
stood by gravely while Dick took off his overcoat, and then led the way
into the library.

"I'd better tell you at once," he said, "that I have advised Elizabeth
to see you, but that she refuses. I'd much prefer--" He busied himself
at the fire for a moment. "I'd much prefer to have her see you,
Livingstone. But--I'll tell you frankly--I don't think it would do much
good."