His mother sighed, but her reply was cut short by the noisy opening of the outer door. Amherst seemed to hear the sound with relief. “There’s Duplain,” he said, going into the passage; but on the threshold he encountered, not the young Alsatian overseer who boarded with them, but a small boy who said breathlessly: “Mr. Truscomb wants you to come down bimeby.”
“This evening? To the office?”
“No—he’s sick a-bed.”
The blood rushed to Amherst’s face, and he had to press his lips close to check an exclamation. “Say I’ll come as soon as I’ve had supper,” he said.
The boy vanished, and Amherst turned back to the sitting-room. “Truscomb’s ill—he has sent for me; and I saw Mrs. Westmore arriving tonight! Have supper, mother—we won’t wait for Duplain.” His face still glowed with excitement, and his eyes were dark with the concentration of his inward vision.
“Oh, John, John!” Mrs. Amherst sighed, crossing the passage to the kitchen.
III
AT the manager’s door Amherst was met by Mrs. Truscomb, a large flushed woman in a soiled wrapper and diamond earrings.
[ 29 ]
