“Ain't sayin', though? That it? What's the matter?”
“It belonged to Mr. Vertrees,” said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to his desk.
“So!” Sheridan gazed down at his son's thin face. “Excuse me,” he said. “Your business.” And he went back to his own room. But presently he looked in again.
“I reckon you won't mind lunchin' alone to-day”—he was shuffling himself into his overcoat—“because I just thought I'd go up to the house and get THIS over with mamma.” He glanced apologetically toward his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat. The bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three fingers—the forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated. “She's bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than her dinner. I'll be back about two.”
But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately that Mrs. Sheridan's lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from the lonely table when he came into the dining-room. He had left his overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets.
“What's the matter, papa?” she asked, quickly. “Has anything gone wrong? You ain't sick?”
“Me!” He laughed loudly. “Me SICK?”
“You had lunch?”
“Didn't want any to-day. You can give me a cup o' coffee, though.”
She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn she said querulously, “I just know there's something wrong.”