upon his father-in-law lying back in a leather chair, his clothes covered with dust, his eyes closed, a dead cigar hanging between the relaxed lingers of his dark, muscular hand. It gave Scott a start; he thought the Professor didn’t look well.
“Hello, Doctor! What are you doing here? Oh, yes! the shopping expedition. Where’s Rosamond?”
“In Chicago. At the Blackstone.”
“Outlasted you, did she?”
“That’s it.” The Professor smiled apologetically, as if he were ashamed to admit it.
Scott sat down beside him and tried to interest him in one subject after another, without success. It occurred to him that he had never before seen the Professor when he seemed absolutely flattened out and listless.
That was a bad sign; he was glad they were only half an hour from Hamilton.
“The old chap needs rest,” he reflected. “Rosamond’s run him to death in Chicago. He oughtn’t to be used as a courier, anyhow! I’m going to tell Kitty that we must look out for her father a little. The Marselluses have no mercy, and Lillian has always taken it for granted that he was as strong as three men.”
That evening Mrs. St. Peter was standing by the French windows in the drawing-room, watching somewhat anxiously for her husband. The Chicago train was usually punctual, and surely he would have taken a cab from the station, for it was a raw February night with a freezing wind blowing off the lake.