gazing out at that narrow street—thinking-wondering—wishing—
It was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled him to himself. He leaped up, and seized the receiver. Allan Harrowby's voice came over the wire.
"Can you run down to the room, Minot?" he inquired. "The last call, old boy."
Minot went. He found both the Harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by to San Marco forever.
"Going to New York on the Lady Evelyn," said George Harrowby, who was aggressively cheerful "From there I'm taking Allan to Chicago. Going to have him reading George Ade and talking our language in a week."
Lord Harrowby smiled wanly.
"Nothing left but Chicago," he drawled. "I wanted to see you before I went, Minot, old chap. Not that I can thank you for all you did—I don't know how. You stood by me like—like a gentleman. And I realize that I have no claim on Lloyds—it was all my fault—if I'd never let Martin Wall have that confounded policy—
