Anderson turned away a little and ran his hand over the papers on his desk. Did she only imagine that his hand shook a little?
"Wheat deals, I reckon—mostly," he said. "An' mebbe I'll run over to Washington."
He turned then, puffing at his cigar, and calmly met her direct gaze. If there were really more than he claimed in his going, he certainly did not intend to tell her. Lenore tried to still her mounting emotion. These days she seemed all imagination. Then she turned away her face.
"Will you try to find out if Kurt Dorn died of his wound—and all about him?" she asked, steadily, but very low.
"Lenore, I sure will!" he exclaimed, with explosive emphasis. No doubt the sincerity of that reply was an immense relief to Anderson. "Once in New York, I can pull wires, if need be. I absolutely promise you I'll find out—what—all you want to know."
Lenore bade him good-by and went to her room, where calmness deserted her for a while. Upon recovering, she found that the time set for her father's departure had passed. Strangely, then the oppression that had weighed upon her so heavily eased and lifted. The moment seemed one beyond her understanding. She attributed her relief, however, to the fact that her father would soon end her suspense in regard to Kurt Dorn.
In the succeeding days Lenore regained her old strength and buoyancy, and something of a control over the despondency which at times had made life misery.
A golden day of sunlight and azure blue of sky ushered in the month of June. "Many Waters" was a world of verdant green. Lenore had all she could do to keep from flying to the slopes. But as every day now brought nearer the possibility of word from her father, she stayed at home. The next morning about nine o'clock, while she was at her father's desk, the telephone-bell rang. It did that many times every morning, but this ring seemed to electrify Lenore. She answered the call hurriedly.
"Hello, Lenore, my girl! How are you?" came rolling on the wire.
"Dad! Dad! Is it—you?" cried Lenore, wildly.