"Your theory is good humanitarianism, and I wish I could
accept it as applying to this abandoned community out here in my native
hills; but I can't. Let's go back to the others. We've established a
sort of family _modus vivendi_, my father and I, and I don't want him to
think that I'm breaking it by plotting with you."
It was while the evening was still measurably young that Blount made his
excuses to his hostess and got away, fondly believing that he was
escaping without attracting the attention of the small lady who was deep
in a political discussion with candidate Gordon at the critical moment.
He was mistaken, but the escape was not interrupted. At the curb the
Blount touring-car was waiting, with two others, and for an instant
Blount hesitated, half inclined to ask his father's chauffeur, to drive
him down-town. On such inconsequent pivots fate, or accident, twirls the
most momentous affairs of life. If Blount had taken the car he would
have been driven directly to the hotel. As it was, he walked, and in
passing the Temple Court Building he remembered that he had not seen his
mail since early morning.
Rousing the sleepy boy in charge of the all-night elevator, he had
himself lifted to his office floor. The upper corridor was dimly
lighted, and on leaving the car he went directly to the door of his
private room, walking swiftly and neither seeing nor hearing a man who,
materializing mysteriously out of the corridor shadows, followed him
step by step.
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