After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parents were alive and well—and, strangest of all, they were not grieving at his death.
He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way, disappointed. It is a blow in the face to learn that your loved ones are quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get fool messages from you through the services of a fool medium!
Peter's ire rose, and he was all for going to his father's house at once, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear old man to the blush for having written that preposterous book?
From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made, of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Crane from its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was still having, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing had brought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.
So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decided to sleep over it before taking any definite steps.
He had small fear of recognition. Nobody in New York believed him alive, or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was so different from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed his looks still further by a different brushing of his hair, he felt there was no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only one who knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation of running up against one who knew him well.
So, after dinner, he sat for a time in the hotel lobby, not wishing to mingle with his fellow men, yet not wishing to seem peculiar by reason of his evading notice.
Worn with the succession of shocks that had come to him, and weary of meeting the big problems and situations, he thought of diversion.
"Any good plays on?" he asked the news-stand girl, and his winning smile brought a chatty response.
"Plays—yes. Nothing corking, though. But say, have you seen the big movie?"