Staatz, his red face redder than its wont, and his great gray mustache abristle at the Railroader’s tone and look, nevertheless mumbled some apology. But Caleb did not hear him out. He broke in on the words with a curt nod, then said to Shevlin:
“Start it up, Billy. Any old tune’ll do. There’s none there but the kind I like. Might try——”
Again the footman came in. This time not with coffee, but with a card.
“I thought I told Gaines I wasn’t to be broke in on this evening,” began Conover, glowering at the intruder. “Say I can’t see anyone. I’m busy, and——”
He had taken the card as he spoke. Now, as he read it, his order trailed off into perplexed silence, even as Billy Shevlin, his face one big grin at Staatz’s discomfiture, started the phonograph on the classic strains of “Everybody Works but Father.”
“Turn off that measly racket!” roared Caleb. “Ain’t you got any better sense than to go fooling with toys a time like this? I’ll be back in a few minutes, boys. My New York lawyer wants me for something.”
He left the study and hurried downstairs to where, in the hall, a man stood awaiting him.
“Come in here, Wendell,” directed the Railroader, shaking hands with his new guest, and leading the way to the library. “What’re you doing in this part of the country? Glad to see you.”
“I bring you bad news—very bad news, I am afraid,” began the lawyer as Conover closed the library door behind them.
“I know that,” snapped Caleb. “I knew it as soon as I saw your face, but I didn’t want you shouting it out in the hall where my butler could hear you. That’s why I—well, what is it? Tell me, can’t you?”