s she went through the house her
expression was thoughtful. She was thinking vaguely about the glue
factory and wondering if there might be "something in it" after all. If
her mother was right about the rich possibilities of Adams's secret--but
that was as far as Alice's speculations upon the matter went at this
time: they were checked, partly by the thought that her father probably
hadn't enough money for such an enterprise, and partly by the fact that
she had arrived at the front door.

CHAPTER XII

The fine old gentleman revealed when she opened the door was probably
the last great merchant in America to wear the chin beard. White as
white frost, it was trimmed short with exquisite precision, while his
upper lip and the lower expanses of his cheeks were clean and rosy from
fresh shaving. With this trim white chin beard, the white waistcoat,
the white tie, the suit of fine gray cloth, the broad and brilliantly
polished black shoes, and the wide-brimmed gray felt hat, here was a
man who had found his style in the seventies of the last century, and
thenceforth kept it. Files of old magazines of that period might show
him, in woodcut, as, "Type of Boston Merchant"; Nast might have drawn
him as an honest statesman. He was eighty, hale and sturdy, not aged;
and his quick blue eyes, still unflecked, and as brisk as a boy's, saw
everything.

"Well, well, well!" he said, heartily. "You haven't lost any of your
good looks since last week, I see, Miss Alice, so I guess I'm to take
it you haven't been worrying over your daddy. The young feller's getting
along all right, is he?"

"He's much better; he's sitting up, Mr. Lamb. Won't you come in?"

"Well, I don't know but I might." He turned to call toward twin disks of
light at the curb, "Be out in a minute, Billy"; and the silhouette of a
chauffeur standing beside a car could be seen to salute in response, as
the old gentleman stepped into the hall. "You don't suppose your daddy's
receiving callers yet, is he?"

"He's a good deal stronger than he was when you were here last week, but
I'm afraid he's not very presentable, though."

"'Presentable?'" The old man echoed her jovially. "Pshaw! I've seen lots
of sick folks. _I_ know what they look like and how they love to kind of
nest in among a pile of old blankets and wrappers. Don't you worry about
THAT, Miss Alice, if you think he'd like to see me."

"Of course he would--if----" Alice hesitated; then said quickly, "Of