"—are a blood-sucking lot," went on the old gentleman firmly. "If he comes to New York, Leslie, I'll stake my head he won't be long in borrowing a few thousand dollars from each of us. And he'll not seek to humiliate us by attempting to pay it back. Oh, I know them."
Leslie swallowed rather hard. "What's the news here, Dad?" he asked hastily. "Anybody dead?"
"Sara is quite ill, I hear. Slow fever of some sort, Carroll tells me."
"Is she going to marry Brandy Booth?" asked his son.
Mr. Wrandall's face stiffened. "I fear I was a little hasty in my conclusions. Brandon came to the office a few days ago and informed me in rather plain words that there is absolutely nothing in the report."
"The deuce you say! 'Gad, I wrote her a rather intimate letter—" Leslie got no farther than this. He was somewhat stunned and bewildered by his private reflections.
Mr. Wrandall was lost in study for some minutes, paying no attention to the remarks of the other occupants of the motor that whirled them across town.
"By the way, my dear," he said to his wife, a trifle irrelevantly, "don't you think it would be right for you and Vivian to drop in this afternoon and see Sara? just to let her know that she isn't without—"
"It's out of the question, Redmond," said his wife, a shocked expression in her face as much as to say that he must be quite out of his head to suggest such a thing. "We shall be dreadfully busy for several days, unpacking and—well, doing all sorts of NECESSARY things."
"She is pretty sick, I hear," mumbled he.