Amos Cobb stepped in.
"I saw the light, Oliver," he said, in a low tone, "and I knew you were up. I have an important telegram from New York in answer to one I sent this morning from my office here. Would it be possible for me to see your father? I know it is very late, but the matter is most urgent."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Cobb. He is very low."
"Not serious?" Amos exclaimed, in alarm.
"Doctor Wallace thinks it is."
"You don't tell me so! I had no idea he was so ill!"
"Nor did we, sir; a change for the worse set in this evening."
Amos leaned back against the wall, his hat in his hand. The light from the eight-sided hall lamp fell on his thick-set shoulders and square, determined, honest face. The keen-eyed, blunt Vermonter's distress at the news was sincere, and heartfelt.
"Could I attend to it, Mr. Cobb?" asked Oliver.
"Perhaps so. I've got those fellows now where the hair is short, and
I'm going to make 'em pay for it."