Emma McChesney walked to the window. There was a little silence. Then she finished it with one clean stroke. “We've been good business chums, you and I. I hope we always shall be. I can imagine nothing more beautiful on this earth for a woman than being married to a man she cares for and who cares for her. But, T. A., you're not the man.”
And then there were quick steps in the corridor, a hand at the door-knob, a slim, tall figure in the doorway. Emma McChesney seemed to waft across the rooms and into the embrace of the slim, tall figure.
“Welcome—home!” she cried. “Sketch in the furniture to suit yourself.”
“This is going to be great—great!” announced Jock. “What do you know about the Oriental potentate down-stairs! I guess Otis Skinner has nothing on him when it comes—Why, hello, Mr. Buck!” He was peering into the next room. “Why don't you folks light up? I thought you were another agent person. Met that one down in the hail. Said he'd be right up. What's the matter with him anyway? He smiles like a waxworks. When the elevator took me up he was still smiling from the foyer, and I could see his grin after the rest of him was lost to sight. Regular Cheshire. What's this? Droring-room?”
{Illustration: “'Welcome home!' she cried. 'Sketch in the furniture to suit yourself'”}
He rattled on like a pleased boy. He strode over to shake hands with Buck. Emma McChesney, cheeks glowing, eyed him adoringly. Then she gave a little suppressed cry.
“Jock, what's happened?”
Jock whirled around like a cat. “Where? When? What?”
Emma McChesney pointed at him with one shaking finger. “You! You're thin! You're—you're emaciated. Your shoulders, where are they? Your—your legs—”
Jock looked down at himself. His glance was pride. “Clothes,” he said.