“Thanks for the hint! Just for that I hope the job’s a failure.”
II
Bruce was engrossed at his drawing-board when, at half past eight, the tinkle of the house telephone startled him.
“Mr. Storrs? This is Mr. Mills speaking—may I trouble you for a moment?”
“Yes; certainly. Come right up, Mr. Mills!”
There was no way out of it. He could not deny himself to Mills. Bruce hurriedly put on his coat, cleared up the litter on his table, straightened the cushions on the divan and went into the hall to receive his guest. He saw Mills’s head and shoulders below; Mills was mounting slowly, leaning heavily upon the stair rail. At the first landing—Bruce’s rooms were on the third floor—Mills paused and drew himself erect. Bruce stepped inside the door to avoid embarrassing his caller on his further ascent.
“It’s a comfort not to have all the modern conveniences,” Mills remarked graciously when Bruce apologized for the stairs. “Thank you, no; I’ll not take off my coat. You’re nicely situated here—I got your number from Carroll; he can always answer any question.”
His climb had evidently wearied him and he twisted the head of his cane nervously as he waited for his heart to resume its normal beat. There was a tired look in his eyes and his face lacked its usual healthy color. If Mills had come to speak of Leila, Bruce resolved to make the interview as easy for him as possible.
“Twenty-five years ago this was cow pasture,” Mills remarked. “My father owned fifty acres right here when I was a boy. He sold it for twenty times its original cost.”
Whatever had brought Franklin Mills to Bruce’s door, the man knew exactly what he had come to say, but was waiting until he could give full weight to the utterance. In a few minutes he was quite himself, and to Bruce’s surprise he rose and stood, with something of the ceremonial air of one about to deliver a message whose nature demanded formality.