“I’ll see you in the smoker, Don.”
The mail he received was more voluminous than he had expected. There were several letters, some with dates months back, and a cable.
He retired into a quiet corner of the smoking room. Don was there and handing him one lean looking letter, he excused himself and broke the seal of the cable. It was but one day old. “Glad know you out of desert well and homeward bound. Mother sister well. Send love. Am not very well myself. Better hurry home, boy.”
Mechanically he looked for the signature which was lacking. It seemed less personal without his father’s name, and he was puzzled that his father had not used the code.
The letters contained nothing but good tidings. There was no reference to his father’s health except in the one from his mother bearing the latest date. She wrote: “Father seems quieter than usual and somewhat restless. Nothing wrong but the doctor advises putting off his usual trip to the Rockies for the present and would like to see him go South before the cold weather sets in. We expect to leave Bar Harbor earlier than usual and go to Cleveland before the middle of October as father would be more happy if we joined him there. If you, my dear boy, could get home in time, we might spend Christmas in California together and for once escape the cold of the lakes.”
Morton grew pensive; he had never before given a thought to his father’s health. His father had always seemed to him as young as ever and a more rugged and sturdy man, a man of better habits could not be found. He hoped the plaintive word meant nothing—nothing but the longing of the old man for his son. Still—he guessed it was time for him to step in and ease the governor’s burden. After all—what better work could he do?
He lay back, smoking and dreaming, somewhat in revival of his solitary habits of the past months, and abandoned himself once more to the charm of being alone—alone with his thoughts and removed from undesired companionship.
After an hour or so he rose and went to his cabin, where he threw himself on his couch. Unable to rest, he busied himself with a survey of his few belongings that might need packing. Then nervously drawing up a table he began working on his report. But he could not collect his thoughts. Evidently he was not in the humor. He was about to put his things away preparatory to trying once more the darkened deck, when the door opened and a steward entered with a note.
In the envelope he found a card bearing the inscription:
“Count Arnim Barton-Rondell.”