'Not an idea on earth,' the other admitted. 'I guess I was conceited enough to hope that you wanted to see me again.'
'That's so, anyway,' Lavendale assured him, 'and you know it, but apart from that I want you to do something for me. I want to meet your uncle.'
'I'll do what I can,' Moreton promised, a little dubiously. 'He isn't the easiest person to get at, as you know.'
'Where is he now?' Lavendale inquired.
'I haven't had a line from him or my aunt for months,' Moreton replied, 'but the papers say he is coming to New York to-night.'
'Is there anything in these sensational reports about his new discovery?' Lavendale asked eagerly.
'I shouldn't be surprised,' the other confessed. 'There is no doubt that he is giving up his laboratories and closing down in the country. He told me himself, last time I saw him, that the thing he'd been working at, off and on, for the last thirty years, was in his hands at last, perfect. He's through with inventing—that's how he put it to me. He is going to spend the rest of his days reading dime novels in the mornings and visiting cinemas in the afternoons—says his brain's tired.'
'I shouldn't wonder at that,' Lavendale observed. 'He was seventy-two last year, wasn't he? I wonder how long he'll keep his word, though.'
'He seems in earnest. He has been very cranky lately, and they were all terrified down at Lakeside that he'd blow the whole place up.'
'You don't know any particulars about this last invention, I suppose?'