As Trafford sprang from his cab at Armstrong's hotel, Armstrong was just entering the door. "Mr. Armstrong! Mr. Armstrong!" he cried, hastening after him.
The big, easy-going-looking Westerner—still the Westerner, though his surface was thoroughly Easternized—turned and glanced quizzically down at the small, prim-looking Trafford. "Hello! What do you want?"
"To see you for a few minutes, if it is quite convenient," replied Trafford, still more nervous before Armstrong's good-natured contempt.
"A very few minutes," conceded the big man. "I've a pressing engagement."
They went up to his apartment. As he opened the door, he saw a note on the threshold. "Excuse me," he said, picking it up, and so precipitate that he did not stand aside to let Trafford enter first. In the sitting room he turned on the light, tore open the note and read; and Trafford noted with dismay that, as he read, his face darkened. It was a note from Neva, saying that she had just got a telegram from home, that her father was ill; she had scrawled the note as she and Molly were rushing away to catch the train. He glanced up, saw Trafford. "Oh—beg pardon—sit down." And he read the note again; and again his mind wandered away into the gloom. Once more, after a moment or two, his eyes reminded him of Trafford. "Beg pardon—a most annoying message— Do sit down. Have a cigar?"
"Not at present, thank you," said Trafford in his precise way, reminiscent of the far days when he had taught school.
"Well—what can I do for you?" inquired Armstrong, adding to himself, "This is Atwater's first move." But he was not interested; his mind was on Neva, on the note that had chilled him—"unreasonably," he muttered, "yet, she might have put in just the one word—or something."
Trafford saw that he had no part of Armstrong's attention. He coughed.
"If you can give me—" he began.
"Yes, yes," said Armstrong impatiently. "What is it? You can't expect me to be enthusiastic, exactly, about you, you know. I didn't expect anything of the others; but I was idiot enough to think you weren't altogether shameless—you, the principal owner of the Hearth and Home!" Armstrong's sarcasm was savage.