Hollister opened the door and stood hesitating on the threshold.
Hildebrand sat alone by the table, and, as he glanced up and saw who his caller was, his face darkened.
“Well?” he said curtly.
Hollister flushed and took a step forward.
“I—I’ve been—a fool, Blair,” he stammered. “I beg your pardon for what I said this afternoon.”
“Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?” Hildebrand inquired sarcastically.
He was still sore over the result of his attempt that afternoon to open Hollister’s eyes as to the real character of Blake. It had not been a pleasant nor an easy thing to do, and Bob’s reception of it had cut him to the quick, besides making him furiously angry.
“Yes; he’s all you said of him and more,” Hollister returned in a low tone. “I just found out, and I couldn’t rest until I had told you how sorry I am about the way I talked to you.”
His manner was so dejected, and the look of penitence in his eyes was so very real as he turned toward the door again, that Hildebrand could not help but relent.
“Come back here, you old idiot!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “You certainly did made me hot this afternoon, but what’s the use of keeping mad? Give us your fist, and the next time don’t be so infernally set in your way.”