“But he says that you—”
“Now, mother,” her husband interrupted, “never mind. Wint, did you hear anything definite about Kite? What he’s planning....”
Wint hesitated; he had heard something definite. Definite but incredible. That which he had heard could not possibly be true; he could not believe it. To tell his father would only disturb the older man; he could not be sure how Chase would react to the report. He held his tongue. “No, nothing definite,” he said.
“Is he’s coming to see you about it, he must have something.”
Wint got up from the table. “Well,” he said abruptly, “we’ll soon know. It’s after seven, now.”
They went into the sitting room to wait; and the waiting was hard. Wint tried to read the daily; his father took a book from the shelves. But Wint’s eyes strayed from the printed columns. He was in a curiously numb state of mind. This was part hopelessness, part the sheer suspense of waiting. Wint was one of those men who in their moments of greatest passion and excitement become outwardly serene and calm. Their own emotions put a physical inhibition on them so that they are still, and do not speak. Once or twice Chase glanced toward his son and saw Wint motionless, apparently absorbed, apparently quite at ease. But actually Wint was stirring to the throbbing of his heart, held still by the very fury of his own dread and anger and suspense.
At fifteen minutes before eight, some one knocked on the front door. Wint said: “There he is,” and got up and went to the door; but when he opened it, Jack Routt stood there. Wint was surprised; he said slowly:
“Oh, you, Jack?”
Routt nodded, a little ill at ease. “Is Kite here?” he asked.
“No. He’s coming.”