“There mustn’t be any accidents,” answered Ethan, a bit unreasonably.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Be ready to leave, then, promptly at seven!”
“Very well, sir.”
Farrell went out and as the door closed softly behind him Ethan, the photograph in his hands, threw himself into the chair before the fire and beamed blissfully at the flames.
[XIII.]
The library was filled with the pallid twilight of a rainy day. Since early morning the summit of Mount Tom, a dozen miles to the westward, had been enveloped in ponderous, leaden clouds, and for two hours past the storm, travelling along the Connecticut Valley, had been deluging the slopes with autumnal ferocity.