After Dummer had gone, Peter walked uptown, and saw his clergyman.
“Yes,” he was told, “Mr. Bohlmann has always stood high in the church, and has been liberal and sensible with his money. I can’t tell you how this whole thing has surprised and grieved me, Mr. Stirling. It must be terrible for his wife. His daughters, too, are such nice sweet girls. You’ve probably noticed them in church?”
“No,” Peter had not noticed them. He did not add that he did not notice young girls—that for some reason they had not interested him since—since—
“Where does he live?” inquired Peter.
“Not ten blocks from here,” replied Dr. Purple, and named the street and number.
Peter looked at his watch and, thanking the clergyman, took his leave. He did not go back to his office, but to the address, and asked for Mr. Bohlmann. A respectable butler showed him into a handsome parlor and carried his name to the brewer.
There were already two girls in the room. One was evidently a caller. The other, a girl with a sweet, kindly, German face, was obviously one of the “nice” daughters. His arrival checked the flow of conversation somewhat, but they went on comparing their summer experiences. When the butler came back and said aloud, “Mr. Bohlmann will see you in the library, Mr. Stirling,” Peter noticed that both girls turned impulsively to look at him, and that the daughter flushed red.
He found Mr. Bohlmann standing uneasily on the rug by the fireplace, and a stout woman gazing out of the window, with her back to the room.
“I had a call from your lawyer this morning, Mr. Bohlmann,” said Peter, “and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you about the cases.”
“Sid down, sid down,” said his host, nervously, though not sitting himself.