"On the run. It's this trip up into New Hampshire that's crowding things; otherwise, I might have managed it very well."
"Couldn't anybody else have seen Mr.—Hackett home?" asked Julius.
"No." Waldron's tone settled that and left no room for dispute. "There are some things that can't be done, you know, and that's one of them." He glanced at the great clock over his head. "Come over and meet him."
Julius went.
A long, thin figure, wrapped in an ulster, reached out a hand, and a determinedly cheerful voice said, with an evident effort not to show the severe fatigue the journey was costing the convalescent: "Think of me as Sackett or Jackett or something. I'm no Hackett; they're a huskier lot."
"As you will be soon, of course," Julius broke in confidently.
"Colombia air is pretty fine, but New Hampshire air is better—for old New Hampshire boys," asserted Waldron. He nodded at a red-capped porter waiting near, and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "This chap is going to be all right when he gets where a certain little mother can look after him. Mothers and blood poisoning don't assimilate a bit. And now we have to be off, for I want to get my patient settled in his berth before the train pulls out, and it's going to be called in about thirty seconds."
He turned aside for a final word with Julius. "I'm not asking too much?"
"Do you think you are?"
The two pairs of eyes searched each other.