As Forrester closed the front door, after reaching home, his mother and sister hurried out into the hall to meet him. Mrs. Forrester threw her arms around his neck, while Josephine sympathetically took one of his hands in both her own.
"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester. "Why didn't you tell us you were worried to death?"
"Worried!" echoed Forrester. "Where did you get the idea that I was worried?"
"Oh, Bob," explained Josephine, "we read that article in the Times this morning, and people have been calling us up all day."
"Why didn't you tell us you received one of those dreadful notices?" queried Mrs. Forrester.
"Because I didn't think it amounted to anything," answered Forrester. "There was no use upsetting you with a little thing like that."
"A little thing like that!" exclaimed Josephine. "Why they killed poor Mr. Nevins! When we didn't hear anything from you all day we were sure you had met with an accident."
"And the paper said you were so frightened, Bob," added his mother, "that we thought perhaps you had run away and hidden somewhere without letting us know."
"Damn!" exploded Forrester. "Wait until I get my hands on that reporter!"
"Arn't you really frightened?" asked Josephine.