This was Wednesday evening. Carshaw felt that fate was using him ill, for Clancy was the one man with whom he wanted to commune in that hour of agony. He dined with his mother. She, deeming him crazy after a severe attack of calf-love, humored his mood. She was calm now, believing that a visit to the lawyers next day, and her own influence with the mill-manager and the estate superintendent, would soon put a different aspect on affairs.
A telegram came late: “No news.”
He sought Senator Meiklejohn at his apartment, but the fox, scenting hounds, had broken covert.
“The Senator will be in Washington next week,” said the discreet Phillips. “At present, sir, he is not in town.”
Carshaw made no further inquiry; he knew it was useless. In the morning another telegram: “No news!”
He set his teeth, and smilingly agreed to accompany his mother to the lawyers’. She came away in tears. Those serious men strongly approved of her son’s project.
“Rex has all his father’s grit,” said the senior partner. “In a little time you will be convinced that he is acting rightly.”
“I shall be dead!” she snapped.
The lawyer lifted his hands with a deprecating smile. “You have no secrets from me, Mrs. Carshaw,” he said. “You are ten years my junior, and insurance actuaries give women longer lives than men when they have attained a certain age.”