“My dear Hastings,” he said; “it is decidedly up to you. Our word or Richards’.”
Hastings flushed.
“My dear Ned,” he said, steadily, “that I should doubt your good faith is impossible. Nor,” he flared, “do I think you doubt mine. I have been thrust suddenly, through the great generosity of an uncle to whom I am as loyal as you are to your father, into a situation that I know nothing about. I have a manager in whom my uncle, a cautious man, has believed implicitly. You tell me this man is a rogue. But you may be wrong. I can’t condemn him unheard. One thing is certain,” he went on. “I shall find out. And if there has been anything crooked about our management, it shall be righted.” The line of his lips straightened. The muscles of his jaw grew tense. It was impossible to doubt that he meant what he said.
Both listeners believed him. Both admired him. But John Carrington looked his admiration frankly, and young Carrington dropped his eyelids satisfiedly over his.
“That is all we could ask,” said John Carrington, approvingly. “Now let me hear you youngsters chat about Paris.”
But Hastings was impatient to be off now.
“I must get back to my uncle,” he said, lightly. “It has been a hard day for him, and I suggested that I would serve as secretary for once.”
“Then, order the horses round for Mr. Hastings, Ned,” said John Carrington, and as the lad disappeared, and Hastings protested: “They are standing harnessed in the stable,” he said, decisively. “You mustn’t insist on our being too inhospitable.”
And as Hastings capitulated, John Carrington followed out a sudden impulse.
“You will explain to your uncle that this half-mended leg of mine will prevent my calling on him,” he stated, feeling suddenly that Hastings’ uncle must have some good points, “but I shall be glad to put my horses at his disposal while he is here. Ned will come over to your car in the morning, and say so gracefully.”
He smiled confidently at the returning lad.
There was a queer, contented look lurking in the lad’s eyes. “As gracefully as he can,” he laughed, lightly. “I’ll walk down to the gate with you,” he added.
It was on the way to the gate that Hastings asked the question which was really the mainspring of his call.
“Where is your sister now? Did she go to Brittany?”
Young Carrington seemed amused.
“Elenore’s plans were rather upset this summer,” he said, lightly, “as well as mine. She’s far from Brittany, in a curious little place you never heard of in France.” He was rather proud of the way that sentence was turned. “She’s with a friend, and enjoying herself, though she says it’s all queer.”
Hastings had a mental vision of Elenore in some far-off corner of France, making gay over all its out-of-the-way absurdities in that companionable way of hers.
“I wish she were here,” he said, suddenly.
“Oh, well, I dare say she’d rather be where she is than anywhere else,” Ned rejoined, carelessly.
Which was cold comfort to Hastings.
“By the way,” he said, turning, as he was about to step into the trap, “I suppose we’re perfectly safe to make our headquarters in the car here?”
“Safe as the Waldorf, if you’re on a siding,” Ned laughed. “If you stay on the main track the cars will hit you.”
Hastings mentally swore at himself. The question had sounded idiotic.
“See you in the morning,” Ned called, as Hastings drove off. But he walked back to the house rather slowly.
“Pretty tired, dad?” he asked, cheerfully.
“Ned,” said John Carrington, slowly, “when you children were little I’m afraid I loved Elenore best. But no daughter can be to a man what his son is.”
There was a little silence. John Carrington lay with his eyes closed. He was tired.
“Do you think Elenore was interested in that young fellow?” he asked, finally.
“If she was, she never said so,” young Carrington replied. He was looking off in the direction of the Tray-Spot.
“If I were a girl, I’m inclined to think he could have me,” John Carrington announced.
Young Carrington’s laugh was lightly amused.
“If I were a girl, I’d lead him on a bit, myself,” he announced.
CHAPTER V
When Hastings had returned to the car the afternoon before, he told his uncle the story of his interview with the Carringtons quite simply. He was too wise to urge action upon a tired, out-of-temper man; nor did he wait for Mr. Wade’s comment. He shifted conversation to pleasanter things, and by the time Joseph had served them a nice little dinner Mr. Wade’s outer man bore the visible signs of gastronomic peace. A few games of cribbage, which he won, yet not too easily, were also a soothing influence. When Hastings said good-night, Mr. Wade opened the subject of his own accord.
“How did this claim of Carrington’s strike you, Laurence?”
“It struck me that we must satisfy ourselves about it as a matter of personal honor,” said Hastings, firmly. “Of course you will know better than I how and when to take the initiative.”
There was nothing that urged or insisted in his tone. It was quietly assured.
“Good-night, sir,” he smiled, and disappeared. Disappeared to dream that the car was a balloon, and that he was sailing swiftly through sunny skies to Elenore.
Mr. Livingstone Wade, over-fatigued, was jolted through dreamland by that unbridled nocturnal equine who bolts from one disaster to another.
The horror-stricken Mr. Wade found himself lunching at Sherry’s with the head waitress from Raegan’s. She had tied that knife-pleated apron around her neck, like a bib; and she told him things were “elegunt,” and he could call her Maggie.
She insisted on his drinking catsup instead of claret, and ordered the salad compounded with soft hematite instead of paprika.
All the directors of the bank were seated at a table near them; and they looked quite as appalled as Mr. Wade felt he would, had he seen any one of them in his place.
How he came to be in this awful predicament, he had no idea. He only knew that he was riveted to his chair, and that his face, in spite of his inward horror, would wear a pleased smile. And speech, though he strove desperately to articulate, was an impossibility.
Then Hastings appeared, and said seriously: “This, sir, is a matter that affects your personal honor.”
It was in a grim determination to escape from this purgatory at all hazards that Mr. Wade finally jumped himself awake; and though every muscle in his body ached throbbingly, he gave a sigh of contentment as he stirred his face on his pillow.
Trevanion, coming up to the house on a summons from John Carrington, found young Carrington coming down the steps, looking a bit more of a swashbuckling dandy than ever.
“Morning, Trevanion,” he greeted him, buoyantly.
Then he nodded toward the waiting trap.
“I’m going to pay a morning call on the owners of the Tray-Spot,” he announced, genially.
“Confound ’em!” muttered Trevanion.
The lad looked him straight in the eyes, in the way Trevanion found so remarkable.
“Oh, I think they’re square,” he said, lightly, “and that Richards’ day is about done. It will decide itself in a few days now, anyway.”
Trevanion watched him