John Carrington rapped his crutch sharply against a chair.
“Now there’s going to be something doing,” he said, defiantly; and all the repressed activity of months rang in the words.
Young Carrington waved a hand airily in the direction of the other mine.
“The Tray-Spot shall cease from troubling,” he said, gayly, “and we’ll just gather you gently in.”
If anything stirred the stillness, it was the mocking laughter of the goddess of fate.
CHAPTER IV.
The brownstone house on Madison Avenue suggested the solid and respectable affluence of its owner, Mr. Livingstone Wade, in that quieter old New York way which preceded Millionaire’s Row, and which, on account of that precedence, Mr. Livingstone Wade considered immeasurably superior.
Nor was this suggestion a mere exterior effect.
The somber elegance of its interior furnishings showed in every detail that Mr. Wade’s conservatism to earlier ideals was unfaltering.
The ormolu clock on the drawing-room mantel was flanked by a pair of tall vases, Sèvres, as a matter of course, standing equidistant with the precision of sentinels.