"Well, now, that's good of you," he said. "That's very good of you. I was intending to go on to New York to-night by the evening-train, but since you insist, I might wait over till tomorrow."
"Do so," I urged. "You shall spend the night with us. Letitia will be delighted to see an old friend of her father, and my wife will be equally pleased, I know. Have you your grip with you?"
"It is just here—behind the lounge," said Mr. Percival, springing forward with the agility of a boy and drawing from beneath the flounce of the sofa-cover a small valise of a kind now seldom seen except in garrets or in the hands of such little, old-fashioned gentlemen as my guest. It had been glossy black in its day, but now was sadly bruised and a little mildewed with over-much lying in attic dust. In the very centre of the outer flap, which buckled down over a shallow pocket, intended, I suppose, for comb and brush, was a small round mirror, dollar-sized, which by some miracle had escaped the hand of time.
"By-the-way," I said, as we entered my buggy, "you haven't told me—"
He interrupted me, smiling delightedly.
"Why I am going to New York?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well, sir, I'll tell you. I'll tell you, doctor, and it's quite a story."
"Where is your home, Mr. Percival?"
"Sand Ridge," he said, "has been my home, but I expect to reside hereafter in—"