“Yes. He’ll be gone in a few hours. Mark’s so distressed and—the old man asked for you.”
Bernamer said, “No train until three thirty, son.”
“I’ll get there as fast, as I can,” Gurdy told her, “Margot there?”
“No. She’d gone to dine with her friend—Mrs. Calder—and Mark didn’t want her here. I’ll tell Mark you’re coming, then. Good-bye.”
Gurdy rang off. His father nodded, “Mark’ll miss the old feller. Been mighty good to him. Funny old man. Always liked him. Poor Mark! Well, you say this Englishwoman’s sensible. That’s some help.”
Gurdy was glad of Olive’s sanity, wished that the thought of this death didn’t make his heart thump for a little. His father would drive him into Trenton at two. They played chess again. Bernamer made sandwiches of beef and thick bread. The red walls clouded with cigarette smoke. It was two when the bell again rang.
“Dead, prob’ly,” said Bernamer.
The operator asked for Gurdy. There was a shrill wrangling of women behind which a man spoke loudly and savagely. His impatience cracked through the buzzing. It wasn’t Mark when the man spoke clearly at last.
“This is Russell, Gurdy. Can you hear? You must come here at once.”
“To Philadelphia? What’s happened? Mr. Carlson’s dying and—”