There was no answer. Nothing but a hollow, empty sound on the wire, as though it led merely into the universe in general. He tried to call the operator, but without success. The wire was down.
He turned from it with a sense of acute impatience. Was this an omen of obstacles to bar him now from Phyllis Bruce? He had a wild thought of saddling a horse and riding to town, but at that moment the storm came down afresh. Besides, there was the boy.
Suddenly came a quick knock at the door; the handle turned, and a drenched, hatless figure, with disheveled, wet hair, and white, drawn face burst in upon him. It was Zen Transley.
CHAPTER XXII
“Zen!”
“How is he—how is Wilson?” she demanded, breathlessly.
“Sound as a bell,” he answered, alarmed by her manner. The self-assured Zen was far from self-assurance now. “Come, see, he is asleep.”
He led her into the whim-room and turned up the lamp. The lad was sleeping soundly, his teddy-bear clasped in his arms, his little pink and white face serene under the magic skies of slumberland. Grant expected that Zen would throw herself upon the child in her agitation, but she did not. She drew her fingers gently across his brow, then, turning to Grant,
“Rather an unceremonious way to break into your house,” she said, with a little laugh. “I hope you will pardon me.... I was uneasy about Wilson.”