"You're not—Peter Waydean?" he gasped.
"No,—I'm not."
"I—I was told this was the Waydean homestead."
"It is," I said, regaining my composure, "but he doesn't live here."
He stared at me blankly. "And you?"
"Oh, I'm only the city man."
He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. "Good-afternoon," he said frigidly.
Remorse for what was past and despair for what was to come gripped me. "I'm sorry for the mistake," I said, following him to the door, "but you wouldn't give me a chance to explain."
Without a word or look in reply, he walked away, selfishly absorbed in his own thoughts.