"Yes; that's what they called it. And he made good money, too,—doin' nothin'. Wish't they'd want me for one! Well, as I was sayin', they had all this comp'ny, an' more an' more of it; and they give receptions an' asked the hull town, sometimes. My wife went, and my darter. They said it was fine and grand, and all that, but that they didn't believe old John liked it very well. But Mr. Burke liked it. That was easy to be seen. And there was a pretty little widder there lots, and she liked it. Some said as how they thought there'd be a match there, sometime, if he could get free. But I guess there wa'n't anythin' ter that. Anyhow, all of a sudden, somethin' happened. Everythin' stopped right off short—all the gay doin's and parties—and everybody went home. Then, the next thing we knew, the old house was dark and empty again, and the Denbys gone to Australia with another bridge."
"Yes, I know. I remember—that," interposed the doctor, alert and interested.
"Did you see 'em—when they come back?"
"No."
"Well, they didn't look like the same men. And ever since they've been different, somehow. Stern and silent, with never a smile for anybody, skursley. No balls an' parties now, you bet ye! Week in and week out, jest shut up in that big silent house—never goin' out at all except to the Works! Then we heard he was sick—Mr. John. But he got better, and was out again. The end come sudden. Nobody expected that. But he was a good man—a grand good man—John Denby was!"
"He was, indeed," agreed the doctor, with a long sigh, as he turned away.
This story, with here and there a new twist and turn, the doctor heard on all sides. And always he listened attentively, hopefully, eager, if possible, to find some detail that would help him in some further plea to Burke Denby in behalf of the far-away wife. Even the women wanted to talk to him, and did, sometimes to his annoyance. Once, only, however, did his irritation get the better of his manners. It was when the woman of whom he bought his morning paper at the station newsstand, accosted him—
"Stranger in these parts, ain't ye? Come to the fun'ral, didn't ye?"
"Why—y-yes."
"Hm-m; I thought so. He was a fine man, I s'pose. Still, I didn't think much of him myself. Used to know him too well, maybe. Used to live next his son—same floor. My name's Cobb—and I used to see—" But the doctor had turned on his heel without even the semblance of an apology.