CHAPTER VIII
CATASTROPHE
Three evenings in succession a tall young man with an ulster turned up high above his chin and a derby hat lowered well over his eyes circled the block of which the Gleason lot and cottage was a part. The first time, in front of the house itself, he had merely halted, hands deep in his pockets, obviously uncertain; then, as though under strain of an immediate engagement beyond, had hastened on. The second time he had passed up the walk, half way to the door; had of a sudden changed his mind, and disappeared rapidly as before. The third evening, the present, however, there had been no uncertainty, no hesitation. Instead, he had walked straight to the knocker, and, a gray-haired man in lounging-jacket and carpet slippers answering his ring, had come to anchor in the familiar den. From his moorings in the single comfortable chair the place afforded, which had been compellingly pressed upon him, he was listening to the other’s explanation. 147
“I think she’ll return soon, though, very soon.” Mr. Gleason adjusted his horn-rimmed eyeglasses and peered near-sightedly at his big open-faced silver watch. “She said she’d be back early and it’s nearly nine now.”
“Something going on, something important, I mean?”
“No; I don’t think so. Just out for a little air, and dropped in on one of the girls maybe. She’s got three freshmen she’s coaching now, and with that out-of-town class and the house here—” The long bony fingers tapped absently tip to tip. “It’s the only time that she has and I encourage, insist almost, that she go.”
“Yes.”
The tapping fingers went still.