It was a long wait. Chester enlivened it by telephoning Winifred that he wouldn't be home till morning—or sooner, and elicited a flurry of questioning which he evaded rather clumsily.
It was all right for him to be curious concerning Red's affairs, he considered, but there was no need for the women to get started on inquisitive questions.
He read himself asleep at last over the office magazines, and was awakened by a hurried step on the porch and a gust of November night air on his warm face.
“What are you doing here?” was the question which assaulted him.
“Sitting up for you,” was Chester's sleepy reply. He rubbed his eyes. “Thought you might like to have me see you off:”
“I'm not going anywhere except back to the case I've just left. Go home and go to bed.”
Chester sat up. He looked at Burns with awakening interest. He had never seen his friend's face look grimmer than it did now under the gray slouch hat, which he had worn for the tramp, pulled well down over his brows, and which, during all his preparations and his hasty departure in the car, it had not occurred to him to remove or to exchange for the leather cap he usually wore on such trips.
“Back to a country case instead of to Washington?” Incredulity was written large on Chester's face.
Burns nodded, growing grimmer than before, if that were possible. He sat down on the arm of a chair, glancing over at the desk where his belongings lay. “How did you know I was going to Washington?”
“Inferred it.”