The bright autumn day was cool--cool enough to warrant the crackling
wood-fire on the library hearth. With his easy chair planted at the
cosey corner of the fire and an open book on the table at his elbow,
the senator sat smoking his long-stemmed pipe in the Sunday afternoon
quiet. Mingled with the fire-snapping there were faint tappings, as if
one of the cottonwoods, growing too near the house, were sending twig
signals to the inmates.
The senator moved the open book a little farther aside when his son made
an abrupt entrance into the cheerful room.
"Well, son, you made out to get here after so long a time, didn't you?"
he said gently. And then: "How's the broken head to-day?"
"Better," answered the son shortly, adding: "It's the least of my
troubles just now."
"That's good," was the hearty comment. Then, with the long stem of the
pipe pointing to a Morris-chair: "Draw up and sit down. I reckon the
drive has tired you some, even if you won't admit it. Where's the little
girl?"
Evan Blount saw instantly that he must be brief and pitiless.
"Patricia is waiting in the car to drive me back to town," he explained,
forcing himself to speak calmly. "I have an appointment with Chief
Justice Hemingway which must be kept, and he will wait in his chambers
in the Capitol only until five o'clock. Father, do you know why I have
made that appointment?"
The senator wagged his great head in a way which might mean anything or
nothing, and said: "How should I know, son?"
"I hoped you would know.
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