ub. Several
telephone calls convinced him that Rusty had not made an appearance as
yet.

When he reached the club, the big building was swarming with men of his
acquaintance, yet he seemed curiously apart from them. Since his
father's murder and the death of his mother, he had proceeded under
what engineers call "forced draught." His nerves, like iron, had been
drawn tight--to the snapping point: only some great climax of relief
would disentangle the tense feelings which he now controlled with
external calmness, and sub-surface tremors which warned him of an
approaching catastrophe.

For an hour he sat brooding in the quiet library of the club. He had
tried to eat; but all the artistry of the famous French _chef_ could
not conjure up an appetite. Men passed by him, glancing curiously at
the usually jovial companion; the twisted, drawn expression surprised
them. He tried to read a magazine; the printed lines "pied" themselves
before his twitching eyes, blurring into a vision of that last bitter
scene in the room with his dying father. And even the vision had faded
now, to dissolve into one dull mass of color--a wavering, throbbing
field of _red_!

"Mr. Warren Jarvis! Mr. Warren Jarvis!"

The page stood by the library door, calling. He sprang to his feet,
brought back to a consciousness of the present with galvanic
suddenness. He turned, bewildered for an instant, and then walked
slowly toward the boy.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A man wants to see you, sir, down at the front door. A colored
man...."

Jarvis waited for no more. He hurried down the oaken stairway, out
through the vestibule, and hatless, breathless--relieved to a great
extent from his tension--he caught the hand of faithful Rusty Snow.

"Lawd be praised!" murmured that jubilant henchman. "I done thought he
might beat me to it!"

"What do you mean, Rusty? Why didn't you come inside?"

"Dat cop at de door wouldn't let no darky come in. I want to talk to
you right away, Marse Warren. Right away quick."

Jarvis turned about, with a direction to await him.

He hurried to the coat-room, caught up his light overcoat and hat, and
rushed out through the door. Rusty helped him into the garment, with
fingers tremulous with joy at the renewal of this familiar and loving
task.

"Come, we'll go down the side street. I've given up my apartment, and
there's no place to talk but the sidewalk. What did your telegram mean,
Rusty?"

"Well, sah, jest what it