"What the deuce kept you so late this morning?" he demanded, in a sulky voice, and limping over to a table he drew a package out of his pocket and slammed it on the table.
"I was up half the night, as usual," I said, rising. "You oughtn't to be here, Mr. Dick!"
He caught hold of the rail around the spring, and hobbling about, dropped into a chair with a groan.
"For two cents," he declared, "I'd chop a hole in the ice pond and drown myself. There's no marriage in Heaven."
"That's no argument for the other place," I answered, and stopped, staring. He was pulling something out of his overcoat pocket, an inch at a time.
"For God's sake, Minnie," he exclaimed, "return this—this garment to—whomever it belongs to!"
He handed it to me, and it was Miss Cobb's black tights! I stood and stared.
"And then," he went on, reaching for the package on the table, "when you've done that, return to 'Binkie' these letters from her Jonesie."
He took the newspaper off the bundle then, and I saw it was wrapped with a lavender ribbon. I sat down and gazed at him, fascinated. He was the saddest-eyed piece of remorse I'd seen for a long time.
"And when you've got your breath back, Minnie," he said feebly, "and your strength, would you mind taking the floor mop and hitting me a few cracks? Only not on the right leg, Minnie—not on the right leg. I landed on it last night; it's twisted like a pretzel."