Joan, Sam said, sent them to Amos, and Amos had arranged the rest; sent Wint home—Gergue was his agent in this—and spread the word through Hardiston. To-night had attested the thoroughness of his work.
Wint found a chance at last to thank Amos. They were a little apart from the others; and they talked it over briefly. Amos, Wint thought, was curiously subdued, curiously sad. He wondered at this. But he understood, at the end.
He had said: “Wonder what Routt will say to this, anyway? And Kite?”
“You don’t have to—worry about Routt,” said Amos.
Wint asked quickly: “Why not? Is he ... Is there something?”
“He took the noon train,” said Amos. “And—Agnes went with him. She telephoned to-night. She says they’re married.”
Wint was so stunned that for a moment he could not speak; he could not move. He managed to grip Amos’s hand; tried to say something.
“I’ve said to myself, more than once,” Amos told him huskily, “that I wished her mother hadn’t ’ve died.” He began, slowly, to fill his pipe. Wint thought there was something heroic, splendid about the man. Facing life, driving ahead. And this to think upon.... He was sick with sorrow.
Amos was facing the stage; he said slowly, smiling a little, “but forget that. Here’s some one coming for you to see her home.”