“Then you must have seen a good deal of Hughes,” persisted the interrogator.
Goddard shook his head decisively and his small, reddish mustache seemed to fairly bristle.
“As I told you last night I have hardly addressed the fellow half a dozen times in my life. He was self-effacing, like any other well-trained servant; you’d scarcely know he was there. Then, too, I never had much occasion to see him, for though such old friends Orbit and I have not been on an intimate footing; Mrs. Goddard and I dine there or I run over for an evening of bridge now and then, that’s about the extent of our intercourse.”
“Oh, Dad!” The clear, treble voice which McCarty had already heard sounded from the hall and the red-haired, delicate-looking boy appeared in the doorway. “Dad, that old Hughes is dead! Now he’ll never be horrid to Max any more when he follows me over to Mr. Orbit’s!”
“Run away, Horace!” Goddard ordered peremptorily. “Dad’s busy—!”
“So Hughes was horrid to Max, was he?” McCarty interrupted with the broad, ingratiating smile which always won juvenile confidence. “And who is Max, my lad?”
“My police dog. Hughes was afraid of him, and that’s why he tried to kick him out. It’s lucky Mr. Orbit didn’t see him; he never lets anything be hurt—”
The boy was replying courteously, in simple friendliness, when his father interrupted:
“Horace, it’s time you got ready for lunch. Look at your hands!”
“That’s paint, Dad; it won’t come off, but I’ll try again.” He nodded, his wistful, sensitive face breaking into a smile and then went off down the hall while Goddard remarked: