Tom was much too familiar with the house to allow locks to keep him out. He knew a basement window that could be opened with a piece of wire, and without much trouble he got himself inside. From the interior of the house he judged that the family had been gone for several days, at least. He went to his own room, hunted out an outfit of fresh clothing more suited to the city, took a bath, and dressed himself. The feel of the stiff collar was strange and irritating. Investigating the kitchen, he could find nothing but some crackers, part of a pot of jam, and a tin of sardines; but these simple foods seemed delicious, and he greedily ate everything in sight.
He looked through the house to see if he could find any indication of where his family had gone. He could discover nothing, but the appearance of the rooms and of the covered furniture seemed to indicate that a long absence was intended. Tom began to grow a trifle uneasy. But they would know all about it at his father’s office, and he left the house and took a downtown car.
To his alarm he found no signs of life about the big lumber-yard at the foot of Bathurst Street. No teams were moving; no one was at work; the great gates were closed and padlocked, with a “No Admission” sign. But the office building was open, and Tom went in.
None of the usual clerks were in the outer office. But he thought he heard a sound from his father’s private room beyond, and he opened the door, and looked in.
Mr. Jackson was not there. But in his usual place at the desk sat a stout man with iron-gray hair, surrounded by an enormous mass of papers and ledgers. His back was to the door, but he wheeled sharply, with a look of annoyance, at hearing the door open.
Tom recognized Mr. Armstrong, his father’s lawyer. For many years Mr. Armstrong had been not only Mr. Jackson’s legal adviser, but his closest personal friend. He did not often come to the house, however, and Tom really knew him very slightly. He had always been somewhat repelled by the lawyer’s dry, ironical manner, and had always had a feeling that Mr. Armstrong did not approve of him.
“Mr. Tom Jackson. Really! The last person I expected to see,” said the lawyer with a chilly smile. Adjusting his eye-glasses, he examined Tom from head to foot. “You look as if you’d been roughing it. Your family has been very anxious about you, you know.”
“Where are they? I’ve just come down from the north woods, and the house is empty,” Tom cried. “What’s happened? Surely father hasn’t left town?”
“Your father has gone to Muskoka with his family, for a little rest—to the Royal Victoria Hotel, Muskoka Beaches,” replied the lawyer. “They were anxious to get in communication with you, but didn’t know how to reach you. I have the key of the house.”
And he produced it from a pigeonhole in the desk.