Jean forced back the sob in her throat. "I'll go to-night if there's a train."
The sick woman smiled gratefully. "You are kind," she said again. "And—there's not many that's kind when they don't understand."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jean propped her note to Herrick on the desk where he would be sure to see it as soon as he came in, and caught the six-fifteen train.
When Herrick came at half past six he found the note, read it three times and tore it into bits.
"Taking the six-fifteen to Belgrave on a case. May be away a few days.
Jean."
It was eight before Herrick stopped pacing up and down the studio, took his hat and went out.
Giuseppe's was crowded. The air reeked with smoke and the heavy odor of highly seasoned food. Not a place at the long table was vacant. Flop was denouncing the low standards of American art, exemplified in the flat failure of a recent exhibit of his own, and the others pounded the table in the old way and shouted their approval. Flop caught sight of Herrick first, stopped in the middle of a sentence, and then, with a shout:
"Well, I'll be damned! Look who's here," got up and dragged Herrick forward as if the latter had been trying to get away.