"Good. Safe from the first. Then we'll pass right on to the next. Now let's see what the papers will try to do. Their whole purpose—"
The tiny tinkle of a bell rippled from overhead. Reid was on his feet in a flash and started for the door, Lady following. I had risen, too, startled at the tense faces of the rest.
"Don't you come, father dear," she said, turning for an instant in the doorway. "It's probably only for Sheila. We'll call if we need you." I heard their careful footsteps on the stairs.
Mr. Tabor had settled back into his chair, the paper lying on his knee, his head forward, and the muscles of his neck rigid with listening. Somehow in the sharp sidelong light he looked much older than I had seen him: more conquerable, more marked by time and trial; and with the listless hands and deep eyes of his night's unrest went a strange look of being physically lighted and less virile than the formidable old man I had begun to know. And as the noiseless minutes went by I grew presumptuously sorry for him.
After a little he relaxed himself with an evident effort and turned to me with his careful smile.
"A family man gets very fussy, Mr. Crosby," he said. "You learn so many things outside yourself to worry about."
"Hadn't I better go and leave you all free?" I asked. "It's getting time, anyway."
"I wish you'd stay," he growled, "it's easier to wait when there are two."
I sat down again and tried to talk; but neither of us could keep any movement in the conversation. We fell into long silences, through which the weight of the silent anxiety above pressed down like a palpable thing. At last Lady's voice called softly, and we rose.
"Don't tell me anything," I said, as I opened the front door, "but if I can be of any earthly use, I will."