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I sat down. There was something depressing in the air, there was much that was pathetic about Henry Drew. His birthday! Who gave a hang? Certainly not his wife, who looked at him through eyes that seemed to be counting his years with ever-increasing hate; nor, probably, the son by his first marriage, whom I had never seen, but who, according to report, hated him too.
He went over and held those cold transparent hands of his up to the fire. I noticed that they trembled slightly.
“The girls will be down soon,” he said. “Before they come I want to tell you that I’ve been thinking over our little matter———”
“Please,” I interrupted. “I’m sure your party will go off much more pleasantly if there is no mention of that.” I paused. “My lawyer will call on you to-morrow.”
The shadow of a smile crossed his face. And well he might smile, for he
