Walter, watching, hardly knew whether to go or stay. The man's rage was terrible and he thanked his lucky stars that it was not directed toward himself.
"Is—is—there anything I can do, Mr. Crowninshield?" he at last managed to stammer after the master had ceased his pacing of the veranda and at length became conscious of his presence.
"Not a thing, little chap," returned his employer, flashing him one of his rare smiles. "You have been mighty white about this, though. I guess it took some nerve to come up here and tell me this, didn't it?"
"Yes, sir, it did."
"I wondered what you'd do."
"Wondered?"
"Yes. Mrs. Crowninshield told me about Lola the minute the Davenports went. I saw the affair had nothing to do with you. Nevertheless, I wasn't sorry to try you out and see how much of the man was in you. You're all right, boy. Cheer up! Nobody is going to pack you home to your mother, so don't worry. And far from blaming you, if I want help about finding Lola, I'll add you to my detective force. You may be useful, who knows?"
The words, designed merely to be comforting, were idly, kindly spoken, and carried little real weight. Had the master of the house really suspected how true they were to prove he would have been astonished.