McCoy's face flushed. "Don't know that it has," he admitted, "but——"
The telephone interrupted further conversation and Gregory turned to the instrument.
"Yes—Mr. Gregory at the phone. All right."
McCoy watched the silent figure as he listened to the message; saw his jaws set tighter as he replaced the receiver and faced about.
"I'd kind of like to talk this thing over with Blair," McCoy began. "You see——"
"I just received a telegram from the sanitarium. Mr. Blair died this morning at nine o'clock."
McCoy crumpled in his chair and rested his head in his hands. "Poor old John," he muttered brokenly, "I ought to have gone up last night when they phoned me he was so much worse." He raised his head and there were tears shining in his eyes. "They didn't make them any whiter than John Blair," he said.
Gregory agreed.
"I knew him only slightly," he said. "But I surely counted on him. His loss means a lot to me. I'll go up there right away and see if there is anything I can do. Would you like to go with me?"