We entered the library together. The room in which I had had my two memorable encounters with “Big Jim” Colton was without its dominant figure now. His big armchair was drawn up beside the table and the papers and writing materials were in the place where I had seen them. A half-burned cigar lay in the ash tray. But the strong fingers which had placed it there were weak enough now and the masterful general of finance was in his room upstairs fighting the hardest battle of his life, fighting for that life itself. A door at the end of the library, a door which I had not noticed before, was partially open and from within sounded at intervals a series of sharp clicks, the click of a telegraph instrument. I remembered that Colton had told me, in one of his conversations, that he had both a private telephone and telegraph in his house.
Miss Colton closed the door behind us, and turned to me.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, again. “I need help and I could think of no one but you. You have hurried dreadfully, haven't you!”
She was looking at my forehead. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the mantel and reached for my handkerchief.
“I must have run every step of the way,” I answered. “I didn't realize it. But never mind that. Tell me about your father.”
“He was taken ill soon after he returned from your house. He was in the library here and I heard him call. When I reached him he was lying upon the couch, scarcely able to speak. He lost consciousness before we could get him to his room. The doctor says it is what he has feared, an attack of acute indigestion, brought on by anxiety and lack of rest. It was my fault, I am afraid. Last night's worry—Poor Father!”
For just a moment I feared she was going to break down. She covered her eyes with her hand. But she removed it almost immediately.
“The doctor is confident there is no great danger,” she went on. “Danger, of course, but not the greatest. He is still unconscious and will be for some time, but, if he is kept perfectly quiet and not permitted to worry in the least, he will soon be himself again.”
“Thank God for that!” I exclaimed, fervently. “And your mother—Mrs. Colton—how, is she?”
Her tone changed slightly. I inferred that Mrs. Colton's condition was more trying than serious.