“Thank you,” murmured Mrs. Langdon. “I’ll put the children to bed and leave you my husband meanwhile.”
He helped them upstairs with their things, looked down with a smile at Helen, as her father laid her, fast asleep, on the bed, Mitzi still clutched in her arms, then returned with Mr. Langdon to the big living-room.
They sat down, and Stacey gazed at his guest with interest. A simple likable man, with a kindly face, and extremely well-bred.
“I trust,” said Stacey pleasantly, as he offered him a cigarette, “that you carried adequate insurance.”
Mr. Langdon smiled faintly. “About enough to cover the first mortgage,” he returned quietly.
Stacey paused in the act of lighting a match, and stared.
“The whole investment was a mistake, sir,” his guest continued mildly. “For sentimental reasons I am sorry to lose the house, but it was a burden. The factory has never paid, and the rate of interest banks hereabouts demand on loans is ruinous—ten to twelve per cent. I shall sell out for what I can get and go back to Macon. Forgive my troubling you with such mention of personal affairs.”
“On the contrary, I am interested—and sorry,” Stacey replied sincerely. He fell silent for a moment. So the villain of the piece must be sought elsewhere? Among the bankers? Stacey shook his head. Not there, either. He pulled himself back to his duties as host.
After a time Mrs. Langdon came down. She had put on another dress, and there was a touch of coquetry in her manner toward Stacey. Both she and her husband were behaving like good sports, he thought. Elijah brought in coffee and sandwiches, and the three talked pleasantly together for half an hour.
Nevertheless, Stacey was relieved when his guests went up to bed. Somehow he seemed to have broken free; he was no longer a pacing animal in a cage; and he wanted to think things out. He leaned against the mantelpiece and gazed off across the room with grave abstracted eyes.