Thereupon a great silence fell upon the spirit of Alfonso Bombs. He was resting in rich security—the kind of security he liked. The $10,000,000 that for a few brief moments seemed jeopardized would eventually flow into the great Bombs’ coffers and the time would come when he would be more envied than the President of the United States; and his old-time victor would be beaten back to the place from whence he came.
“Bah!” the thin lips parted with an ironical smile, and the word of contempt came very near falling out. He congratulated himself on having checked it in time, for turning aside he saw a pair of clear but rather penetrating eyes looking directly at him, and a gentle voice asked:
“What is it that pleases you so dreadfully, Mr. Bombs?”
It was the voice of Adelaide Schwarmer.
“O! Ah! Beg pardon, Miss Adelaide,” said Mr. Bombs, in the flurried way which was usual with him when she asked him a sudden question, although she was only a chit of a girl, barely fifteen years of age.
“For the smile or the style of it, Mr. Bombs?”
“For both if need be; but where did you come from so suddenly? I didn’t see you at the train.”
“No, I wasn’t there, I stopped to shake paws with—guess who?”
“The baker or candlestick-maker or some stick-at-home fellow. Most of the folks seem to have gone away.”
“No, it was a dog—Ruth Cornwallis’ dog. He’s funny. He always wants to shake paws with me when I come. I haven’t been here in two years, but he was on hand to shake all the same. I wonder why?”