The day advanced. His spirits were rising. If nothing happened between then and midnight he was reasonably secure from arrest.
But in the middle of the day the blow fell. Not the expected blow, but one that stunned him and left him more miserable than anything else in the world could have done.
There came a polite knock at the door. Annie admitted a pleasant-faced, rather ceremonious young man, who said he had business of the utmost importance to transact with Mr.—Mr.—He glanced at a paper which he drew from his pocket, and supplying the name asked if the gentleman was in.
Harvey was tiptoeing toward the dining-room, with Phoebe at his heels, when the stranger entered the library.
“Pardon me,” called the young man, with 180 what seemed to Harvey unnecessary haste and emphasis. “Just a moment, please!”
Harvey stopped, chilled to the marrow.
“It was all a joke,” he said, quickly. “Just a little joke of mine. Ha! Ha!” It was a sepulchral laugh.
“I am John Buckley, from the offices of Barnes & Canby, representing Miss Duluth, your wife, I believe? It isn’t a pleasant duty I have to perform Mr.—Mr—er—but, of course, you understand we are acting in the interests of our client and if we can get together on this––”
“Can’t you come some other day?” stammered Harvey, holding Phoebe’s hand very tightly in his. “I’m—I’m not well to-day. We—we are waiting now for the health officer to—to see whether it’s smallpox or just a rash of––”
The pleasant young gentleman laughed.