Chapter 9: VIII

VIII Mr. Harry Cresswell The Cresswells, father and son, were at breakfast. The daughter was taking her coffee and rolls upstairs in bed. “P’sh! I don’t like it!” declared Harry Cresswell, tossing the letter back to his father. “I tell you, it is a damned Yankee trick.” He was a man of thirty-five, smooth and white, slight, well-bred and masterful. His father, St. John Cresswell, was sixty, white-haired, mustached and goateed; a stately, kindly old man with a temper and much family …