“When he returns? Is he coming back soon?”
“I judge so, although I’ve had no word. There were a number of letters and telegrams came for him yesterday, and a batch of them to-day. I suspect that he intended being here to-night and is delayed for some reason.” Randall removed his glasses and polished them with unnecessary diligence. “I wired him when I heard what he’d done for me, but I haven’t had any answer yet. I’d have given anything to have had him here to-night. It was the one thing lacking.”
For a moment there was silence.
“He has done a lot for you, Harry, that’s a fact,” commented Armstrong, judicially. “Your new place at six thousand dollars a year is a pretty good thing even for these days.”
“A lot? Everything! He pulled me out of hell and gave me a chance when I’d never have made one myself. I owe him everything; and 306 I’ve never been able to do him one blessed service in return.”
Armstrong squirmed uncomfortably. The usually reticent Harry Randall like this was a novelty.
“For that matter, he’s done a lot for both of us,” admitted Armstrong, perfunctorily. “I appreciate it too, thoroughly.”
Randall looked up swiftly; in remembrance equally swift he turned away.
“Yes; he’s done miracles for both of us, more than we can possibly realize,” he said softly. “More—”
“Harry,” interrupted Margery Randall’s voice from the stairway, “I’m sorry to hasten you men, but Elice thinks she must go. Her father isn’t well, you know, and is at home alone.”