At the farm he paused on the veranda, turned his face westward where the light still lingered in pale tints of gold and scarlet. He remained staring across the level fields, hearing the murmur of the wind in the maples, the rustle of dead leaves in the grass, until the chauffeur spoke to him, took his arm and led him into the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I
Carroll and Bruce dined at the University Club on an evening early in October. The tragic end of Shepherd Mills and George Whitford had brought them into a closer intimacy and they were much together. The responsibility of protecting Shep’s memory had fallen upon them; and they had been fairly successful in establishing in local history a record of the tragedy as an accident. Only a very few knew or suspected the truth.
“Have you anything on this evening?” asked Carroll as they were leaving the table.
“Not a blessed thing,” Bruce replied.
“Mr. Mills, you know, or rather you don’t know, is at Deer Trail. The newspaper story that he had gone south for the winter wasn’t true. He’s been ill—frightfully ill; but he’s better now. I was out there today; he asked about you. I think he’d like to see you. You needn’t dread it; he’s talked very little about Shep’s death.”
“If you really think he wants to see me,” Bruce replied dubiously.
“From the way he mentioned you I’m sure it would please him.”
“Very well; will you go along?”