He did not see Miss Pilgrim the following day or the next; that was easy for him to contrive, for much of his business was done outside his office. It was not that he had any fear of meeting her; but it was more agreeable to his feelings not to be reminded of her part in the acquisition of the carpet. Upon the third day, he was late in arriving, for his wife had complained at breakfast of headache and sickness, and he had stayed to comfort her and see her back to bed for a twenty-four hours' holiday from life. On his way he had stopped at a florist's to send her back some flowers.'
He was barely seated at his desk when there was a knock upon his door and Miss Pilgrim entered.
He smiled his usual pleasant welcome at her.
"Ah, Miss Pilgrim, good morning, I am glad to see you. You will sit down yes?"
He was rising to give her a chair he was not in the least afraid of her when something about her arrested him, a trouble, a note of sorrow.
"Mr. Baruch" she began.
He knew the value of the deft interruption that breaks the thread of thought.
"There is something not right?" he suggested. "I hope not." With a manner of sudden concern, he added: "The poor man, he is worse no?"
Miss Pilgrim showed him a stricken face and eyes brimming with tears.
"He's, he's dead!" she quavered.