As the day wore on and his scheme crystallized, he fluctuated between a sort of exalted confidence and the depths of nervous depression. He was naturally a steady, humdrum sort of man, but he was planning to do an audacious thing. His chance had come, and he meant to take it. At last, just before supper time, he resolutely locked his office, and started out to see Blaney. He hesitated a second or two before the contractor's house; then he ran up the steps and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a little girl, who peered up at him through the dusk with a child's curiosity. Bridge knew her, but he was of that kind of bachelors who are embarrassed in the presence of children.
“Good evening, Louise,” he said. “Is your father home?”
“No, sir, he isn't,” she answered.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then he stammered,—
“Well—good night.” He bent down and gravely shook hands with her, and turned to go down the steps, but at that moment Blaney himself appeared.
“How are you?” he said. “Did you want to see me?”
“If you've got the time,” said Bridge.
Blaney led the way into the house, and motioned Bridge to a seat in the parlor. He himself paused in the hall to swing Louise up to his shoulder and down again.
“What's the matter with you to-night?” he asked. “You don't seem to want to play. Are you sick?”