The play was wrapped in the identical paper in which it had been brought.
She must have touched something, for a boy came in—a younger brother, past doubt—but so bewildered, as to have become habitually staring.
“Tell Mr. Markheim, Mr. Morning insists on seeing him.”
The boy seemed on the point of falling to his knees to beg for mercy. Morning’s personal distemper subsided. Here was a drama, too—the great American stage.... One word came out to him from Markheim:
“In-zists!”
“How do you do, Mr. Morning—good afternoon.”
Markheim had his hand in a near drawer, and was smiling with something the same expression that old Conrad used when listening for the dinner notice.
“You see we do not want it—we are afraid,” he began, and becoming suddenly hopeful, since Morning drew forth no bomb, he added, “You have a girl’s idea of war, Mr. Morning—good afternoon.”
He liked his joke on the name. “We were in doubt about the war part—afraid—and so we consulted an expert—one who was on the spot,” he said pleasantly.
Morning’s mind was searching New York; his idea was fateful.