He turned away toward the sunset again and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past seven. In the last twenty-five minutes his hopes had flown high and fallen dead. Evanston’s point of view was beyond his comprehension. He felt that the man was mad, and that he had come upon a fool’s errand.
He turned back toward Evanston. “I must be going,” he said. At that moment a servant came from the house and approached them.
“Mr. Whitehouse is on the telephone, sir,” the man said to Evanston. “He says his cook has been taken suddenly ill, and may he come to dine to-night and bring Professor Blake.”
Evanston looked helplessly at Mr. Carteret. “That’s odd,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“He evidently hasn’t heard,” said Mr. Carteret.
“Evidently,” said Evanston. “But why shouldn’t he come?” he added. He turned to the man. “Tell Mr. Whitehouse that Mrs. Evanston and myself will be glad to have him and Professor Blake.” The man bowed and went back to the house.
“It’s better that way,” continued Evanston. “We’ll have a party. I don’t know who Blake is; but Whittlesea’s coming down, and you’ll stay.”
“I can’t; I have no clothes,” said Mr. Carteret.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Evanston.
“No,” said Mr. Carteret, “I must go. I’m of no use here.”