"He's pretty sick," said Wheaton. "It's typhoid fever."
Fenton whistled.
"That's what the doctor calls it. I spoke to Miss Porter over the telephone a few minutes ago, and she did not seem to be alarmed about her father. He's very strong, you know."
But Fenton was not listening. "See here, Wheaton," he said suddenly, "do you know anything about Porter's private affairs?"
"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly.
"I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know how morbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,—I suppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheaton particularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,—the annual meeting is held to-morrow and he's got to be represented."
"He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully.
"His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed at home; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If he has his wits he'll probably try and send word to me. I suppose I couldn't see him if I went up."
"Miss Porter telephoned me to come,—on some business matter, she said, and no doubt that's what it is."
"Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get down town. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating. Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies.