Chapter XI––The Cold Gray Dawn
At a quarter of twelve o’clock a week later, I slip out of my office sheepishly, and, walking a half-block, take the elevator to the fifth floor of the Exchange Building, on the corner. The white enamel of Sandford’s tiny box of an office glistens, as I enter the door, and the tiling looks fresh and clean, as though scrubbed an hour before.
“Doctor’s back in the laboratory,” smiles the white-uniformed attendant, as she grasps my identity.
On a tall stool, beside the laboratory lathe, sits Sandford, hard at work. He acknowledges my presence with a nod––and that is all.
“Noon, Sandford,” I announce.
“Is it?” laconically.
“Thought I’d drop over to the club for lunch, and a little smoke afterward. Want to go along?”
“Can’t.” The whirr of the electric lathe 308 never ceases. “Got to finish this bridge before one o’clock. Sorry, old man.”
“Harry just ’phoned and asked me to come and bring you.” I throw the bait with studied nicety. “He’s getting up a party to go out to Johnson’s, and wants to talk things over a bit in advance.”
“Harry!” Irony fairly drips from the voice. “He’s always going somewhere. Mustn’t have much else to do. Anyway, can’t possibly meet him this noon.”
“To-night, then.” I suggest tentatively. “He can wait until then, I’m sure.”
“Got to work to-night, too. Things are all piled up on me.” Sandford applies a fresh layer of pumice to the swiftly moving polishing wheel, with practised accuracy. “Tell Harry I’m sorry; but business is business, you know.”
“Purr-r-r!” drones on the lathe, “purr-r-r!” I hear it as I silently slip away.
Yes, Sandford is sane; and will be for fifty-one weeks.