He leaned forward. “What are you thanking God for?” he demanded. “And—here— Are you crying? I believe you are. What—”
Just then Nabby Gifford bustled into the library. She had not announced her coming; she was too excited for that.
“Who do you suppose is out here, waitin’ to see you, Cap’n Foster?” she whispered. “The Honorable Mooney, that’s who.”
Townsend’s reception of this announcement was disappointing, to say the least.
“Humph!” he grunted. “I thought it must be Saint Peter, judging by your face. Tell him to come in. Yes, yes. Go and tell him.”
He turned to Reliance. “Reliance,” he said, “I want you to hear this. You go in the parlor and leave the door open a crack. Don’t mind sitting in the dark a few minutes, do you?”
She started toward the parlor. Then she turned and looked at him fixedly and with growing suspicion.
“Foster,” she said, sharply, “what is all this? Have you— What have you been doin’?”
He waved her away. “Keep your ears open and maybe you’ll find out,” he suggested. “Hurry up! I don’t want him to see you—yet.”
Congressman Alpheus Mooney had not honored that room with his presence for almost a year. That he now considered himself as honoring it was quite apparent. Bowed in by the reverential Mrs. Gifford he entered briskly and with importance. When he last crossed the threshold of the Townsend house he had been an anxious candidate for office, humbly seeking aid and advice from the most influential man in his district. Then he came hat in hand. His hat was in his hand now, but he tossed it lightly upon the table without waiting for an invitation.