CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Horace Shellington took a long breath as he entered his office one morning in the latter part of March. The blustering wind that had raged all night had almost subsided, and he felt glad for Floyd's sake; for, no matter how warm they kept the little lad, the sound of the wind through the trees and the dismal wail of the branches at night made him shiver and fret with nervous pain. Horace had scarcely seated himself when Everett Brimbecomb entered the room.
"Hello, Horace!" said the latter jovially. "I was going to come in yesterday, but was not quite ready to see you. Haven't been able to get a word with you in several days."
Horace offered a chair, and Everett sank into it.
"You are always so busy when I run in to see Ann," Brimbecomb went on, "that one would think you were not an inmate of that house."
"Yes," said Horace, "I've been studying up on an interesting case I expect to handle very soon."
Everett laughed.
"So have I," he said, narrowing his lids and looking at Shellington.
"When one is connected with offices as we are, Everett," remarked Horace uninterestedly, "there is little time for visiting."
"I find that, too," replied Everett.