“M-m-m—yes. But it wasn't always so ready. Anyway, I always managed somehow. The boy's at college. Sometimes I wonder—well, that's another story. I've saved, and contrived, and planned ahead for a rainy day. There have been two or three times when I thought it had come. Sprinkled pretty heavily, once or twice. But I've just turned up my coat-collar, tucked my hat under my skirt, and scooted for a tree. And each time it has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the sun coming out bright and warm.”
Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of the black ones. “Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly will mean everything to me. They've been my cyclone-cellar. If—”
Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with a note of inquiry in it.
“Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Lud—”
“Here, boy!” Mrs. McChesney took the little yellow envelope from the salver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on the written words. She rose, her face colorless.
“Not bad news?” The two men spoke simultaneously.
“I don't know,” said Emma McChesney. “What would you say?”
She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in silence. Then once more, aloud:
“'Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your trip.'”
“Why—say—” began Meyers.