“Yes, but only with a cold; nothing serious. His memories of the last few weeks keep him cheerful.”
“I suppose he is as much elated as ever?”
“More so—he is the proudest man in Riverport,” and Berty laid a hand on an elusive fantail and clasped her gently. “No one could be more delighted at the turn affairs took with regard to the kidnapers. His well-laid plans succeeded.”
“No credit was given him by the press,” remarked the Judge. “No reporters interviewed him, but perhaps he does not care for that sort of thing.”
“Not at all. He shuns notoriety. All the people that he cared about gave him the glory. You, in going out to his island, and wringing his hand, conferred a tremendous honor upon him. You and the chief of police are his heroes, and at police headquarters he stands very high, and is correspondingly set up by it.”
“And your good opinion,” said the Judge, pointedly; “he knows he has that.”
Berty smiled. “Amusing to retail, he does not value my praise half as much as he does yours, or any man’s. He is sure of me. I befriended him when he was friendless, and he thinks I would like him no matter what he did. He likes me to approve; but still, nothing I could say or do would come up to that handshake of yours.”
“Remember your promise to let me know if there is anything I can do for him.”
“I will. Just now he is well enough as he is.”
“By the way, are you still going to see those unfortunate women?”