"Humph!" grinned Newbert. "It doesn't look swell enough to suit Herb's style. He's the real warm article, as you'll realize when you see him. When it comes to cutting a dash—well, Rack can cut it, you bet. I'll see if he's around."
Springing out, Newbert strode to the door and rang. After a time, as he was growing impatient and had prepared to ring again, the door opened a foot or so, and a tall, thin, hopeless-looking woman surveyed him inquiringly.
Newbert asked for Rackliff.
"Yes, he boards here," answered the woman in a mechanical tone of voice; "but he isn't up yet."
"Ho, ho!" laughed Newbert. "Isn't up? Well, that's like him; won't pull himself away from the mattress until he has to. He's a luxurious brat."
"I'm afraid Mr. Rackliff may not be feeling very well this morning," said the woman. "He has a very bad cold and coughs terribly. I told him last night that he should consult a doctor, and I heard him coughing the greater part of the night."
"Well, well! Sorry to hear it. I'm an old friend of his, and I've come over by appointment to take him back to Wyndham with me. You tell him that——"
A harsh cough came echoing down the stairs and a voice called:
"That you, Dade? Come right up. It's all right, Mrs. Conway; let him come, please."
Herbert, in silk pajamas, was standing at the head of the stairs, looking ill indeed. He put out a limp hand, which Newbert grasped, crying: