III
At my wife’s suggestion, I went down the line to meet Nathan. Mary Ann drove the roadster down to Gilberts Mills. I boarded the shuttle train there in order to ride up into the town with him alone. I found him in the vile-flavored smoker. He jumped as I laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Bill!” he cried. “Where’d you come from now?”
“Just getting back from the Mills where I had to chase a news story,” I lied. “You haven’t been home yet, I take it?”
“I’m just getting home. I got a telegram from Mildred. Do you know about anything happening to her or my folks, Bill?” he asked anxiously.
“Move over, old man,” I requested. “Let’s smoke a cigar—a good one.”
“Do you, Bill?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? In God’s name, what is it?”
“Nathan, it’s a darned long lane that doesn’t have a turning sometime,” said I. “And some of the turns are pleasant and some are hard. The mystery to me is why most of the turns for some people seem to be hard ones.”