“Well?” demanded Wayne, glancing up again.
“The widder’s home, sir!”
“The what?”
“The widder—Mrs. Craighill—she’s home.”
This was Wayne’s first acquaintance with a nickname bestowed upon Mrs. Craighill by Joe, and derived, it appeared, from Joe’s pretended belief that a woman who marries a widower becomes a widow.
“Home? When did she get home?”
“Oh, she never went! She’d brought her trunk to her room to pack but passed it up.”
“That will do, Joe.”
As the door closed, Wayne threw himself back in his chair and stared out at the blurred sky. There was no question but that his father had intended to take Mrs. Craighill with him; the matter had been spoken of several times in his hearing; his father had called the proposed visit their wedding journey; and when he left home there had certainly been no change in his father’s plans. Nothing but illness could account for it, as Mrs. Craighill had been too short a time in the city to be subject to sudden and imperative social demands. He pushed a button and asked the chief clerk what address his father had left. It was brought to him on a tablet in Colonel Craighill’s own handwriting: “Care Colonel Winthrop Broderick, Beacon Street, Boston.”
On the same sheet another address had been written and scratched out, but it could be read: Hotel Beverly.