“Mrs. E. F. Lessing, Washington, D. C. Am leaving Washington to-night. Hope to have drive with you to-morrow morning in place of letters impossible to write. R. P. BURNS.”
“I suppose that's a fool telegram,” he admitted to himself as he hung up the receiver, “but after that typing mess I had to express myself somehow except by signs. Now to get off. Luckily, this suit'll do. No time to change, anyhow.”
He telephoned for a sleeper berth; he called up a village physician and the house surgeon at the city hospital, and made arrangements with each for seeing his patients during the two nights and a day of his absence. He had no serious case on hand and, of course, no surgical work, so that it was easier to get away than it might be again for a year after his arm should be once more to be counted on. Then he interviewed Cynthia on the subject of Bob; after which he packed a small bag, speculating with some amusement, as he did so, on the succession of porters, bell-boys, waiters and hotel valets he should have to fee during the next thirty-six hours to secure their necessary assistance, from the fastening of his shoes to the tying of his scarfs, the cutting up of his food, and the rest of the hundred little services which must be rendered the man with his right arm in a sling.
“I may not look a subject for travel, Miss Mathewson,” he announced with a brilliant smile, appearing once more in the outer office, where the bill-copying was just coming to a finish, “but I'm off, nevertheless. Thank you for your struggle with my schoolboy composition. We won't need to finish it. I'm—Oh, thunder!”
It was the office bell. Miss Mathewson answered it. Burns, prepared to deny himself to all ordinary petitioners, saw the man's face and stopped to listen. It was a rough-looking fellow who told him his brief story, but the hearer listened with attention and his face became grave. He turned to Miss Mathewson.
“Call Johnny Caruthers and the Imp, please,” he directed. “Telephone the Pullman ticket office and change my berth reservation from the ten-thirty to the one o'clock train.”
He went out with the man, and Miss Mathewson heard him say: “You walked in, Joe? You can ride back with us on the running-board.”
Ten minutes after he had gone Chester came again. He found Miss Mathewson reading by the office droplight. On the desk stood a travelling bag; beside it lay a light overcoat, not the sort that Red Pepper was accustomed to wear in the car, a dress overcoat with a silk lining. On it reposed a that and a pair of gloves rolled into a ball, man fashion. Chester regarded with interest these unmistakable signs of intended travel.
“Doctor Burns going out of town?” he inquired casually. It must be admitted that he had scented action of some sort on the wind which had taken his friend from his company at the conclusion of the walk. Ordinarily, Burns would have gone into Chester's den and settled down for an hour of talk before bedtime.
“I believe so,” Miss Mathewson replied in the noncommittal manner of the professional man's confidential assistant. “But he has gone out for a call now.”