BESSIE OSBORNE was the first of the family, characteristically, to hear the story. She heard it in town early the next morning, or rather as early as she could get on the telephone. And it was characteristic of her, too, that she lost no time over it. She sat up in bed—she was having a massage at the time. It was her substitute for exercise—and called Herbert at once.
"Come around and lunch with me," she said. "I want to talk to you."
"I'm pretty busy today."
"Well, come anyhow," she said and hung up the receiver.
She was a wise woman where young men were concerned, so she gave him an excellent cocktail and plunged into the matter while it was still, as she would have put it, getting in its work.
"Now," she said, "tell me the whole thing. And don't save me anything. I can get the surface story anywhere."
But Herbert knew disappointingly little. Tom had come, had got drunk, acted like a rowdy and disappeared.
"Where to?" said Bessie practically. "Those fellows got him tight. Why didn't they look after him?"
"I don't think they knew he was going. As a matter of fact, I believe he took my hat."
"Your hat!" said Bessie, astounded.
"His own was inside. He didn't go back, you see."
Bessie controlled her face. So there was something underneath, after all. Probably he and Herbert had had a set-to of some sort, and Herbert was not proud of it. She sat and inspected her carefully manicured nails thoughtfully.
"But it's tragic. It's terrible," she said unexpectedly. "Did he have any money?"
"I don't know. And I don't know that I care. He was tight when I saw him, tight as a drum."
