Bob thought he might go for a walk, or a drive, perhaps.
“Where are you going to drive?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps over to Harniss, or thereabouts.”
“Harniss! Humph! You go to Harniss a lot lately, seems to me. Can’t paint pictures in the night, can you?... Oh, well, go ahead! go ahead!... Say, if you see Foster Townsend you tell him for me that he better be saving up his money. He’s going to need a good many dollars to pay the bill the Supreme Court will hand him pretty soon. He, he! I’m going to get him this time and I only hope he’s beginning to realize it.”
The housekeeper cautioned him to be quiet.
“The doctor said you mustn’t talk or even think about that lawsuit,” she protested. “You want to get well, don’t you?”
“Who said I wasn’t going to get well? You don’t suppose I’ll be fool enough to die until I win that case, do you?... Oh, do shut up! Bob, go, if you want to. Don’t stay too long, that’s all. And come in here and see me when you get back. I’ll be awake. Nobody is going to mesmerize me and stick pins in me.... Clear out!”
Bob “cleared out,” glad of the opportunity to escape. The Cook horse never made better time than during that evening’s trip to Harniss.
The Townsend maid—not Nabby Gifford, but the other—answered his ring and ushered him into the library. Esther was there and there was no doubt whatever that she was glad to see him. In her manner was no trace of the angry resentment with which she had bade him good-by two weeks before. Her letter proved that she had repented of her treatment of him that night and now, as her hand returned the pressure of his, his heart leaped joyfully. She was the most glorious girl in all the world and she was his. Nothing could ever part them. There should be no more misunderstandings.
Foster Townsend was in the library also, seated in the big leather chair. His greeting of the caller was as cordial as usual, no more so but no less. He did not rise, however.