“Thank you,” he said, holding out the dainty cup.
“Hot water? It’s rather strong.”
“Before I had a housekeeper we made it black and drank it by the kettleful.”
“But the effect on your nerves!”
“Nerves?” he laughed. “We don’t cultivate them in this country. Mine make no trouble.”
“You’re to be envied,” she said, and looked up sharply at a sound of footsteps as her father came in.
His clothes were dusty and creased; the neatness which had characterized him on his arrival had gone. His face had grown brown, but it was haggard, hotly flushed, and beaded with perspiration; his lips were tightly set, his eyes had an ominous glitter. Throwing down a riding quirt he carried, he sat down; resting his arms on the table, in an attitude of blank dejection.
“Nothing yet,” he said listlessly. “It’s hard to bear.”
“There’s a suggestion I want to make.” Prescott spoke quietly. “The offer of a reward here has led to nothing; send another round to the Alberta and British Columbia papers, with a description of your son, saying you’ll pay a hundred dollars for trustworthy information about him. I believe it will bring you good news.”
Jernyngham turned to him in keen impatience.