"So am I," he added, as Ralph assented. "Hope to see you there again some day. Don't forget it's MY turn this time: glad if I can be any use to you. So long." Ralph's weak bones ached under his handshake.
"How's Mrs. Marvell?" he turned back from his landing to call out; and
Ralph answered: "Thanks; she's very well."
Mr. Spragg sat alone in his murky inner office, the fly-blown engraving of Daniel Webster above his head and the congested scrap-basket beneath his feet. He looked fagged and sallow, like the day.
Ralph sat down on the other side of the desk. For a moment his throat contracted as it had when he had tried to question his sister; then he asked: "Where's Undine?"
Mr. Spragg glanced at the calendar that hung from a hat-peg on the door. Then he released the Masonic emblem from his grasp, drew out his watch and consulted it critically.
"If the train's on time I presume she's somewhere between Chicago and
Omaha round about now."
Ralph stared at him, wondering if the heat had gone to his head. "I don't understand."
"The Twentieth Century's generally considered the best route to Dakota," explained Mr. Spragg, who pronounced the word ROWT.
"Do you mean to say Undine's in the United States?"
Mr. Spragg's lower lip groped for the phantom tooth-pick. "Why, let me see: hasn't Dakota been a state a year or two now?"