"Hey, Jimmy!" shouted Armstrong in astonishment. "Jimmy Wren! Come around to the side!"
Wren halted, stared about, changed his direction. Armstrong, here getting his first sight of the man's face, was inexpressibly shocked. Wren was white as a sheet, hollow-eyed, upon his countenance the look of one who has been plunged into some living hell.
"Glad to see you, Jimmy!" exclaimed Armstrong, meeting him with extended hand. "But what's the matter with you, old man? Sick?"
"Got to see you—quick—alone!" panted Wren. Panic was in his eyes, and fright, as they roved about. For a moment Armstrong thought him drunk.
"Brace up," he commanded sharply. "Here's Mrs. Deming—mother, this is my friend Jimmy Wren. You've heard me speak of him—"
Wren removed his hat, mumbled something, looked at Dorothy with terrified eyes, and then turned upon Armstrong a glance of terrible and unutterable appeal.
"Must see you—quick!"
"I'll give up the trip," said Armstrong to Mrs. Deming. "Something must have come up; Wren has news for me. You'll excuse me? Come into the house, Jimmy."
They started inside. Dorothy, after a word to her astonished mother, joined them in the doorway.
"I'm staying home too,"' she said simply. "Has something happened, Jimmy?"