He remembered having asked that very question when he returned after a former protracted absence—and how many times had he asked it even before that? Every time he came home from college for a brief visit, every time he met Mr. Sage on the street—why, all his life he had been asking: “Where is Jane?”
“Jane Sage? Oh, she’s around, same as ever. Things are a lot easier for Mr. Sage now. I guess maybe you haven’t heard about his brother dying out in California and leaving him quite a bit of money. Yep. About a hundred thousand dollars, they say—safely invested, mostly at six per cent. The old boy still sticks to his job as preacher, though. He’s getting eighteen hundred a year now from the church. I’m glad of it. He gets a new suit of clothes every once in a while, and Jane doesn’t have to make her own dresses as she used to. It looks like a pretty serious affair between her and Doc Lansing. Been going on now for nearly a year.”
“What’s that?” demanded Oliver, startled.
“I guess it’s all happened since you went away. Why, sure it has. Doc’s only been practicing here since last summer. Got hurt over in France in 1917 and had to take his discharge. Went over early in ’Seventeen in the Medical Corps. Leg smashed. Limps. Fine feller, though.”
“I don’t seem to remember him,” said Oliver, dully.
“His father is president of the new bank here—that brick building down there at the corner of Clay and Pershing Streets.”
“Pershing Street?”
“Yep. Used to be Ridley’s Lane.”
“Oh.” Oliver was feeling a little like Rip Van Winkle. “You say she’s—er—in love with him?”
“Looks that way,” said Sammy, indifferently. “He’s dead gone on her, that’s sure. I had him in not long ago for the baby. He’s all right. I forgot to tell you that the court gave the kid to me for eight months every year—four months to Laura. All right, Mr. Baxter. Hop in. I’ll snake you home in no time. Hang on to your hat.”