He was only a lean, tense boy, crouched over a battered desk and staring out of the window at a country street with absent, beautiful eyes, but he was living through a tragic hour; the terrible hour that poets and dreamers know when they lose hold upon their dreams. Measured by minutes, this hour was not long. Neil passed a hand across his forehead and sat up, reaching for his cap in a dazed way, for he was not to be permitted to hide longer from his trouble here. The plump and personable figure of Mr. Theodore Burr was crossing the square and disappearing into the door below. His unhurried step climbed the stairs. Neil opened the door to him.
"Hello, stranger. Why aren't you at Madison?" Neil said.
"I didn't go," said Mr. Burr lucidly. "Where are you going? I don't want to drive you away from here."
"Oh, just out. I was going anyway."
"You don't invite me. I don't blame you. I'm poor company, and I've got business to attend to here."
"No!"
"Why shouldn't I have business here?" snapped Mr. Burr.
"You should, you should, Theodore. Say"—the question had been troubling Neil subconsciously all the time he sat at the desk—"what's wrong with that lower drawer? I can't open it."
"It's locked."
"What for?"