“Oh, Ben!” exclaimed Rod, in apparent wonderment. “Is that you, Ben? Come up.”
“All right,” said Stone, starting to mount the stairs as Miss Priscilla closed the door.
“You’re off your course, you lubber!” squawked the parrot. “Salt horse for mess! Kill the cook!”
“Polly is very noisy to-night,” remarked the spinster apologetically.
Involuntarily Stone dodged as something went darting past him up the balustrade. Then he laughed a bit, beholding the monkey perched on the newel post at the head of the stairs.
“Come down, Nero! Come back here, sir!” called Miss Priscilla. “He wants to get inter your room, Rodney.”
“And tear up my books and papers again,” laughed Grant. “Chase yourself, you Roman emperor!”
The monkey dodged, chattered, and slid tauntingly down the balustrade.
“He’s a lively rascal and sure plumb full of mischief,” said Rod. “Come into my den, Ben. Hardly expected to receive a caller here to-night—or any other time.”
The room was small but comfortable, being warmed by a tiny air-tight stove. Two Navajo rugs brightened the old-fashioned rag carpet on the floor, and there were some pictures on the walls which plainly had been hung there by Grant himself. An old oak bedstead took up considerable space, although it had been set as far back as possible in a corner. On a table, bearing a shaded lamp, were books and papers and some playing cards carefully laid out face upward in a series of small piles. A chair stood where Rod had pushed it back from the table on hearing some one at the door.