"Going to take Graves?"
"No."
"What, all alone? You'll be lonely. Why don't you take Aunt Agatha?"
"No, I shan't be lonely and I'm not going to take Aunt Agatha. I'll tell you what I am going to do, however; I'm going to send you away to school, and that next term. You have a pretty glib tongue in your head, Harry my boy, and I think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will be even better able to appreciate it than I am."
But Harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke. He became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with his preparations for departure.
"Yes, I'll have a talk with Hodgman about the exams.... There's the car, at last—I must run. Where did I put those water rights, anyway? Oh.... Yes, I think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this term.... Take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if I can arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail, progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat—no, the dark one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?—and a triumphal exit in a motor car. Harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and admiration. Hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled along in his scarlet chariot—they ran a great deal to bright red paint in those early days, if you'll remember—and people would run to catch a glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next meal. But it occurred to Harry that he would complete the picture very nicely, sitting there at his father's side. He wished fervently that he could ever make his father remember that Saturday was Saturday.
This parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial things and inscribed indelibly on Harry's memory by the fact that it was the last he ever had with his father.
The day passed like any other day and at its close the household went to bed as usual, boding no ill. Toward midnight the telephone rang and Aunt Agatha arose and answered it. The voice at the other end introduced itself as Police Headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this was Mr. Wimbourne's house. Yet, it was. Headquarters then expressed a desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls speaking? Aunt Agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would have been called frigid, that this was Miss Fraile.
Headquarters appeared duly impressed; at least he seemed to have difficulty in finding words in which to continue. Aunt Agatha's crisp inquiry of what was it, please? at last moved him to admit there had been an accident. Yes, to Mr. Wimbourne. The automobile did it; ran into a telegraph pole down near Port Chester. Pretty bad smash-up; couldn't say just how bad.... Was Mr. Wimbourne badly hurt? Well, yes, pretty badly; the machine—Was Mr. Wimbourne killed? Well, yes, he was, if you put it that way. His body would arrive sometime next morning....
This was the sort of occasion on which Aunt Agatha shone as a perfect model of efficiency. She spent an hour or more telegraphing and telephoning, prayed extensively, returned to her bed and slept soundly till seven. Then she arose and gave directions to the servants. It was breakfast time before she remembered that she had yet to tell Harry.