“What difference did that make?”
“The difference of my following her suggestion to look out for Mr. Mar. I had to go to Golovin to do it.”
“Is that where he is now?” demanded his wife. “Why on earth hasn’t he written?”
Cheviot felt in his inner pocket, as he said, “No, Mr. Mar’s at Nome.”
“At Nome!”
“He—he’s not ill?” faltered Hildegarde.
“No, on the contrary, he’s better than he’s been for years.”
“Then what on earth’s he doing at Nome?” demanded Mrs. Mar. “Why didn’t he go to the place he’s been talking about for all these—”
“He did.”
“Well?” and then, with her peculiar incisiveness, “What’s he got to show for it all?”