Miss Weeks and Reuther followed on more
slowly; this was better for them and better for him, and better,
too, for Deborah, who must hear his story without the distraction
of her daughter's presence.
It was dark when he stepped on to the platform, and darker still
when he rang the bell of Judge Ostrander's house. But it was not
late, and his agitation had but few minutes in which to grow,
before the gate swung wide and he felt her hand in his.
She was expecting him. He had telegraphed the hour at which he
should arrive, and also when to look for Reuther. Consequently
there was no necessity for preliminaries, and he could ask at once
for the judge and whether he was strong enough to bear
disappointment.
Deborah's answer was certainly disconcerting.
"I've not seen him. He admits nobody. When I enter the library, he
retreats to his bed-room. I have not even been allowed to hand him
his letters. I put them on his tray when I carry in his meals."
"He has received letters then?"
"Unimportant ones, yes."
"None from Oliver?"
"Oh, no."
A pause.
"Deborah?"
Another pause. The echo of that name so uttered was too sweet in
her ear for her to cut it short by too hasty a reply. When she did
speak, it was humbly, or should I say, wistfully.
"Yes, Mr. Black."
"I am afraid he never will hear from Oliver. The boy gave us the
slip in the most remarkable manner. I will tell you when we get
inside."
She led him up the walk.
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