Something has jarred Uncle John dreadfully. He is at home ill, but mentally, not physically. Better assure yourself that everything is quite right at the office. Would return immediately if I were you, although when you do you need not bother to call on me unless you feel you really ought to.
Maisie.
Within the hour Dan Pritchard had chartered a seaplane and was flying north. About ten o’clock that night the plane swooped down in the moonlight and landed him at Harbor View; within half an hour he was ringing the doorbell of John Casson’s home.
“Take me immediately to Mr. Casson’s room,” he ordered the butler who admitted him. “It will not be necessary to announce me.”
The man eyed him sympathetically and silently led the way upstairs. John Casson was not in bed, however. He was seated on a divan in his wife’s upstairs sitting room, staring dully into a small grate fire. From her seat across the room his wife watched him furtively.
“Good evening, Mrs. Casson. Good evening, Mr. Casson,” Dan greeted them. “What’s gone wrong, Mr. Casson?”
The old dandy looked up, frightened. Dan could have sworn he shuddered. “I’d rather not discuss the matter tonight, Pritchard,” he parried. “I’m not well.”
“I’m sorry for that, sir. What appears to be the matter with you? Where do you feel ill? Have you eaten something that didn’t agree with you or——”
“He has,” Mrs. Casson interrupted bitterly. “He’s been on a diet of high-priced rice for the past several weeks and it has made him ill. John, do not evade Dan’s query. He is equally interested with you in this matter. Tell him what happened the day he left town.”
“Well, Pritchard, my boy,” old Casson quavered, “the rice market has gone to glory. It’s down to five cents and every rice dealer in this city is a bankrupt.”