“I hope he hasn't been in my cellar. He's got a weakness, but then—How's Dick? Not overworking?”
“No. He's all right.”
But David was no man's fool. He began to see something strange in Harrison's manner, and he bent forward in his chair.
“Look here, Harrison,” he said, “there's something the matter with you. You've got something on your mind.”
“Well, I have and I haven't. I'd like to see Lucy, David, if she's about.”
“Lucy's gadding. You can tell me if you can her. What is it? Is it about Dick?”
“In a way, yes.”
“He's not sick?”
“No. He's all right, as far as I know. I guess I'd better tell you, David. Walter Wheeler has got some sort of bee in his bonnet, and he got me to come on. Dick was pretty tired and—well, one or two things happened to worry him. One was that Jim Wheeler—you'll get this sooner or later—was in an automobile accident, and it did for him.”
David had lost some of his ruddy color. It was a moment before he spoke.