“Please, Miss Brewster—”
A noise at the door saved him. There stood Thatcher Brewster, magnate, multi-millionaire, and master of men, a huge tray in his hands.
“Beefsteak, fried potatoes, alligator pear, fresh bread, real butter, coffee, and cake,” he proclaimed jovially. “Not to mention a cocktail, which I compounded with my own skilled hands. Are you ready, my boy? Go!”
The Unspeakable Perk leaped from his couch.
“Food!” he cried. “Real American food! The perfume of it is a square meal.”
“You’re much gladder to see it than you were me,” pouted Miss Polly.
“I’m not half as afraid of it,” he admitted. “Mr. Brewster, your health.”
“Here’s to you, my boy. Now I’ll leave you with your nurse, and make my final arrangements. We’re off by special in the morning.”
“That’s fine!” said the scientist.
But Miss Polly Brewster caught the turn of his head in her direction, and saw that his fork had slackened in his hand. Something tightened around her heart.