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different, this, from the party Henry Drew had planned! No one spoke. Each sat wrapped in gloomy thought under the glare of Riley. Only one sound broke the stillness—the voice of Time in the person of the clock, still ticking its eternal threat.
Mary Will sat not three feet from me, but I had the feeling that she was miles away. Some sudden barrier seemed to have arisen between us. She glanced toward me but seldom, and when she did it was with a look in her eyes I did not like to see. I was glad when the loud peal of the door-bell broke the stillness of the room.
Mrs. MacShane opened the door, and a brisk good-looking man of about thirty-five came in. The old woman’s first words identified him.
“Oh, Mr. Mark,” she cried. “Your poor father!”
So this was Mark Drew. There was none of that shrewd wicked cunning
