“Yes, I know it, and it worries me to have William out so late alone. William is nothing but a child, though he is so tall,” said Mrs. Snow. “Of course, last night his sisters were with him.” She paused before harking back to the appetizing theme. “They say Miss Linden is still staying at the Leverichs’. I shouldn’t think she’d stay there an hour longer than she could help. They say Mrs. Alexander refused to have her back again at first—did you hear that? They say——”
And in Dosia’s room, where she lay alone, the long, silent day wore on; the gray clouds shifted, shifted above. What had happened? Nothing—and everything.
If Leverich was to keep his word about Lawson, the preparations for his departure must be speedy. They also took money. Leverich could contract for any amount of expenditure to be paid in the future by large drafts, but to hand over five hundred on the minute in cash was at certain times and hours an irritatingly difficult procedure. He cursed the necessity now, with a fervor born of the disastrous ball, and the late hours, and the further fact that stocks had gone down suddenly and he was out on a deal. The gray clouds meant also, in the city, clouds of dust, which the raw wind swept smartingly into his eyes every time he had occasion to go out. As he was getting ready at last to go home with the purchased tickets, he looked up and saw Justin coming in. Leverich nodded to the other’s greeting, but did not otherwise return it.
“I won’t ask you to sit down,” he said curtly; “I want to catch the four-o’clock train out. How are you getting on? All right?”
“All wrong.”
“What’s the matter?”
“This,” said Justin, with a white light in his eyes, and holding out a letter which the other took half reluctantly, relapsing mechanically into the chair by his desk, while Justin dropped straddle-legged into another opposite, his face looking over the back of it, around which his arms were clasped. He went on talking, while the other slowly unfolded the paper and looked at the heading.
“You remember those first big consignments we sent out after the fire? Well, the whole output was rotten!”
“Great heavens!” said the other, sitting up straight, with his eyes stuck to the lines. “Are you sure it’s as this says?”
“Sure? It’s the sixth letter of the kind we’ve had in ten days; three came in this morning’s mail. The packing-room is full now of returned machines—what we’ll do with the rest I don’t know. A couple of firms want the instruments duplicated; the rest want their money back. We talked big at first, thought it was a mistake—that’s why I didn’t speak of it to you—but it’s no mistake; the whole output’s rotten. The bars are rusted and bent, so that everything’s out of gear; it would cost more to repair the machines than to make new ones.”