"It's Allan John," said the voice.
"Why, Allan John!" I laughed. "Of course it would be you! We were just speaking about you, and that's always the funny way that things happen. But wherever in the world are you? We'd begun to worry a bit!"
"I'm in town," said Allan John.
"In town," I cried. "Town! How did you get there?"
In Allan John's voice suddenly it was as though tone itself was fashion. "That's what I want to tell you," said Allan John. "I've done a horrid thing, a regular kid college-boy sort of thing. I've taken something from your house, that silver salt cellar you know that I forgot to give back, and left it with a man in the village as security for the price of a railroad ticket to town, and a telegram to my brother and this phone message. I didn't have a cent you know. But the instant I hear from my brother——"
"Why, you silly!" I cried. "Why didn't you speak to my Husband?"
"Oh, your Husband," said Allan John, just a bit drily, "would have given me the whole house. But he wouldn't let me leave it! And it was quite time I was leaving," the voice quickened sharply. "I had to leave some time you know. And all of a sudden I—I had to leave at once! Rollins, you know! His break about the little girl. After young Kennilworth's cubbishness I simply couldn't put another slight on that lovely little girl. But—" His voice was all gray and again spent, like ashes. "But I just couldn't play," he said. "Not that!"
"Why of course you couldn't play," I cried. "Nobody expected you to! Rollins is a—a horror!"
"Oh, Rollins is all right enough," said Allan John. "It's life that is the horror."
"Yes, but Allan John—!" I parried.