CHAPTER V
Andrew had retired to the dining-room. Once the day's eating was over, this apartment, with its vast space of dignified gloom, its black marble mantelpiece, and the cloth of indigo plushette which now covered the table, made the most congenial refuge conceivable. His thoughts were in exact harmony with everything there, from the Venetian blinds to the portrait of his great-grandmother. The only discordant element was the presence of a few errant bread-crumbs, and happily they were under the table.
It was to this lair that he was tracked by Madge Dunbar. She never paused to ask if she disturbed him, or gave him any chance of protest, but advancing straight up to him, exclaimed—
"Your father is off his head!"
The junior partner eyed her warily, divided between suspicion and a glow of sympathy with her opinion.
"What has he done now?" he inquired gloomily.
"He has treated me exactly as he has treated you!"
The sympathy deepened; the suspicion began to ooze away; but all he remarked was, "Oh?"
He was indeed a magnificently cautious man.