Macgowan, not at all astonished by the information just confided to him, searched the face of Deming. He read there confirmation of Slosson's words. Indubitably, the man was keenly worried. That elderly, handsome face was deeply lined with care; a far and deep-hidden weakness, a frightened panic, was about the eyes. As he stood there in the doorway, Deming tore open the envelope and glanced at the telegram which unfolded in his hand.
Even by the artificial light, Macgowan saw the deathly pallor that leaped into the man's face; he saw the fingers tremble, saw the frightful despair that sprang to the eyes. For one instant Deming lifted his head, stared blankly around, then turned and was gone. After him hurried Slosson, concerned and anxious.
Macgowan felt a touch at his elbow. He turned to find Ried Williams, who had perceived nothing of this happening in the doorway. His rather crafty eyes met the glance of Macgowan with a saturnine air.
"What d'you think of Slosson, Lawrence?"
"Good man." Macgowan glanced at his watch. "Well, I must be off to find Armstrong—"
"You don't know about Slosson, then?"
Macgowan regarded his cousin steadily.
"Disappointed rival; he'd always counted on marrying Dorothy. I've been afraid he'd take a drop too much and make a scene, but he has a good head. And see here, Lawrence! How long have I known you?"
"Longer than I like to think about," and Macgowan chuckled in his hearty manner.
"Yes." Williams looked at him appraisingly, keenly. "Don't wriggle with me, Lawrence. You have devilish deep meanings to some things you say. When you said Slosson was a good man, you meant something. What's in the air?"