“Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were traced to Columbia City. They're on their way here now.”
“Columbia City!” repeated Emma McChesney. “Do you know, I believe I've learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land.”
Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded it thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.
The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big bright office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it was another expression that resembled contrition.
“Mr. Buck's waiting for you,” a stenographer told her.
Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked “Private.”
Two men rose. One she recognized as the firm's lawyer. The other, who came swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck—no longer junior. There was a new look about him—a look of responsibility, of efficiency, of clear-headed knowledge.
The two clasped hands—a firm, sincere, understanding grip.
Buck spoke first. “It's good to see you. We were talking of you as you came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tell you—and so have I. His will be business things, mine will be personal. I got there before father passed away—thank God! But he couldn't speak. He'd anticipated that with his clear-headedness, and he'd written what he wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you. I want you to read that letter later.”
“I shall consider it a privilege,” said Emma McChesney.