He located Murdoch without difficulty. It was now late, and the old clerk came down the stairs with inoffensive imprecations upon the head of his untimely caller, but his mutterings soon gave way to a cry of delight.
“My dear boy!” he exclaimed, embracing him. “My dear boy—excuse me, sir, I’m a blithering old man, but oh! sir—my boy, you’re home again!” There was no doubting the depth of old Murdoch’s welcome. He ran before Grant into the living-room and switched on the lights. In a moment he was back with his arm about the young man’s shoulder; he was with difficulty restraining caresses.
“Sit you down, Mr. Grant; here—this chair—it’s easier. I must get the women up. This is no night for sleeping. Why didn’t you send us word?”
“There is a tradition that official word is sent in advance,” Grant tried to explain.
“Aye, a tradition. There’s a tradition that a Scotsman is a dour body without any sentiment. Well—I must call the women.”
He hurried up the stairs and Grant settled back into his chair. So this was the home of Murdoch, the man who really had earned a considerable part of the Grant fortune. He had never visited Murdoch before; he had never thought of him in a domestic sense; Murdoch had always been to him a man of figures, of competent office routine, of almost too respectful deference. The light over the centre table fell subdued through a pinkish shade; the corners of the room lay in restful shadows; the comfortable furniture showed the marks of years. The walls suggested the need of new paper; the well-worn carpet had been shifted more than once for economy’s sake. Grant made a hasty appraisal of these conditions; possibly his old clerk was feeling the pinch of circumstances—
Murdoch, returning, led in his wife, a motherly woman who almost kissed the young soldier. In the welcome of her greeting it was a moment before Grant became aware of the presence of a fourth person in the room.
“I am very glad to see you safely back,” said Phyllis Bruce. “We have all been thinking about you a great deal.”
“Why, Miss—Phyllis! It was you I was looking for!” The frank confession came before he had time to suppress it, and, having said so much, it seemed better to finish the job.
“Yes, Phyllis is making her home with us now,” Mrs. Murdoch explained. “It is more convenient to her work.”