“Tell me,” said Dr. Crossett eagerly.
“Tell him, father,” interrupted Lola, “while I run to the store. I will only be a few moments, and you won’t miss me. When I come back, Doctor Crossett,” she smiled at him frankly, “I am going to make you explain to me all about it. Father never would.”
She left them, in spite of Dr. Crossett’s offers to accompany her, and as the door closed behind her he stood for a moment looking after her, and from her to a framed picture of her mother that hung on the wall.
“Nine years, Martin,” he laid his slender, powerful hand gently on his old friend’s shoulder; “nine years since you wrote me that her mother——”
They stood together for a moment in silence before the Doctor answered: “Yes, Paul, nine years.”
“I was with you in my heart,” the Frenchman continued, “but, tut—tut—! Come, you have discovered—what?”
As he turned away the bell rang, and with a word of excuse Dr. Barnhelm stepped to the door and admitted John Dorris.
“Lola told me to wait for her here,” said the young man cheerfully. “She wouldn’t let me go with her, to tell the truth; I am taking a little holiday, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.”
The Doctor turned to his friend, smiling.
“Each of us, Doctor Crossett, as we grow older accumulate troubles. Will you let me present my worst, Mr. John Dorris?”