Dr. Bethel came in soon, looking grave and weary. We saluted each other, but Bethel seemed little inclined to talk, and I was glad not to be engaged in a conversation which might detain me at the table after Joe had left it.
Bethel, I knew, was much at the house of the Barnards. The shock caused by the loss of her husband, together with the fatigue occasioned by his illness, had prostrated Mrs. Barnard, who, it was said, was threatened with a fever, and Bethel was in constant attendance.
As yet there had been no opportunity for the renewal of the conversation, concerning the grave robbery, which had been interrupted more than a week since by Mr. Brookhouse, and afterwards effectually cut off by my flying visit to the city.
When the Dimber left the table I followed him almost immediately, only to again find him poring over that absorbing novel, and seemingly oblivious to all else.
Sundown came, and then twilight. As darkness gathered, Dimber Joe laid down his book with evident reluctance and carefully lighted a cigar.
Would he sit thus all the evening? I was chafing inwardly. Would the man do nothing to break this monotony?
Presently a merry whistle broke upon the stillness, and quick steps came down the street.
It was Charlie Harris and, as on a former occasion, he held a telegram in his hand.
"For you," he said, having peered hard at me through the gloom. "It came half an hour ago, but I could not get down until now."