"You—you think it likely, Bellows? That suddenly?"
Bosworth stepped inside, and Bellows gently closed the door before turning to the distressed Mr. Van Pycke, senior.
"Bellows, is my nose frozen?" demanded that gentleman, in tones faint with dread.
"No, sir. It looks to me to be quite warm, sir."
"Is your mistress engaged, Bellows?" inserted Bosworth, quietly. "If she is, I'll not trouble you to help me off with my coat."
"I—I think she is, sir. I'll see, however."
"Very odd," said Mr. Van Pycke, senior, as the man disappeared down the hall.
"I think there's a dinner going on," said Bosworth, beginning to button up his coat.
"No one would go to a dinner on such a night as this," rasped Mr. Van Pycke, who knew all of the eleventh-hour habits of society. He took up his position over a simmering floor register. "I'm wet to my knees. My feet are like ice. I wish that demmed servant would hurry back here and get me a hot drink of some sort. Ring the bell there, Bosworth. I'm—I'm quite sure I feel something stuffy in my chest. Good God, if it should be pneumonia!" His legs trembled violently.
Bosworth did not ring the bell. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor, and paid no attention to his father's maunderings. The humor of the situation was beginning to sift through his slowly clearing brain.