Yet late, or rather early, as it was, we found plenty of life still in the great city that never sleeps. Tired, exhausted, I was at least glad to feel that finally we were at home.
“Craig,” I yawned, as I began to throw off my clothes, “I’m ready to sleep a week.”
There was no answer.
I looked up at him almost resentfully. He had picked up the mail that lay under our letter slot and was going through it as eagerly as if the clock registered P.M. instead of A.M.
“Let me see,” I mumbled sleepily, checking over my notes, “how many days have we been at it?”
I turned the pages slowly, after the manner in which my mind was working.
“It was the twenty-sixth when you got that letter from Ossining,” I calculated, “and to-day makes the thirtieth. My heavens—is there still another day of it? Is there no rest for the wicked?”
Kennedy looked up and laughed.
He was pointing at the calendar on the desk before him.
“There are only thirty days in the month,” he remarked slowly.