“I’m through supposing!” McCarty interrupted. “We’ll stop by and find out!”
The Sloane house, in spite of its almost oppressive luxury, unmistakably betrayed the fact that a feminine hand had been for long absent from its care and arrangement. There was a cold, detached air about as though those beneath its roof were transients with no foothold and little interest of a personal nature. Dennis voiced his impression when the ancient butler had hobbled away to summon the nurse.
“’Tis like a hotel!” he whispered. “Grander than most, but public like. If ’twas the old days I’d have been minded to ask the old guy where the café was!”
“You’re not used to the high society we’ve been moving in lately, Denny,” McCarty replied, adding, as soft but heavy feet padded down the wide center staircase of the reception hall: “Wisht! Here comes the squarehead!”
The man who entered almost before the words had left his lips was a blond, massively built giant with an up-standing brush of hair so light as to be almost colorless, and sleepy blue eyes in a round face ruddy with health.
“Ay Otto Lindholm.” He bent a mildly inquiring gaze upon them. “You bane same mans dat go to my missus?”
“Sure we are!” McCarty beamed in a friendly fashion. “What the devil did you run away for? You’d nothing to fear because of a row with Hughes!”
“My woman!” Otto shrugged as if that settled the matter. “Ay tal her we better stay but she has a scare on. You bane married, you know.”
“Neither of us, thank God!” McCarty replied devoutly. “You quarreled with Hughes on Thursday night a week ago, didn’t you?”
“Ay tal him he keep ’way from my woman or Ay bane goin’ to fix him.” He spoke with stolid satisfaction. “Next time he write latter to her Ay bane kick him ’roun’ de street like yaller dog. Dat’s all.”