"All right," he said vaguely.
"Say, make it snappy, boy. I'm as hungry as a bear, aren't you? Here's a nailbrush. Better use it."
Bert hurried, and finally dried his hands and brushed his hair obediently. As much as he noticed anybody he had always noticed and liked Philip from the day that he watched him paint the Inn sign, and now, in spite of his apprehensions, he felt some stimulation from the company of this big strong man who was going to give him a thousand dollars if Uncle Nick should beat him.
While he was brushing his hair, the telephone rang. Philip answered it. It was Diana speaking.
"I want to thank you so much for doing this errand for us. I know you must be mystified by the urgency of my wire, and this is my best way to tell you in a few words what has occurred. You can see that the matter is confidential, for time and labor and the law will be necessary to adjust matters, but I feel we owe it to you to tell you all. Of course, the boy knows nothing as yet—"
When Philip finally turned from the telephone, he met his companion's troubled gaze, the hairbrush hung suspended in the air.
"Was it Uncle Nick?" he asked.
"No," returned Philip. He continued to sit still for a minute, regarding the unconscious millionaire with the penny in the pocket of his outgrown trousers. "It's all right, old man. Miss Wilbur wants us to come down to lunch, that's all."
As they went to the elevator to descend, the boy spoke again: "Uncle Nick hates—he hates Mrs. Lowell," he said.
"Good thing he isn't coming, then, isn't it?" returned Philip.