Armstrong dropped into a chair, a prey to furious indecision and tumultuous thought. From the very tone Dorothy had used, he knew that something was amiss, something had happened at home. What was it? What on earth had caused that coldness in her voice?
It did not occur to him then that Macgowan might have struck him in a vital spot.
He was tempted to rush home at once, seek the cause of the trouble, remove it. Dorothy had said no word, yet he understood that for some reason she was angered against him. But he could not leave here now; it was impossible.
A knock at the door. Mansfield appeared, closed the door behind him, looked at Armstrong. He seemed startled by the tortured face, the distracted frown, that met his eyes.
"Reese! What's happened? Anything new come up?"
"No." Armstrong made a vague gesture. "Some trouble at home—I don't know what. I feel buffeted on every side—a whirlwind all around me—storm—"
Mansfield regarded him in a singular manner.
"God is never in the whirlwind," he said, his voice and his words strange. "Always in the still, small voice."
"What do you mean?" Armstrong looked up, caught by the extraordinary air of the lawyer. "Eh?"
Mansfield's face changed, altered to its usual dry alertness. He shrugged, took a cigar from his pocket, lighted it, sat down.