with a brick-red flush on his cheek-bones, he seemed at first glance to belong to the innumerable army of American business men—the sallow, undersized, lack-lustre drudges who have never lifted their heads from the ledger. Even his eye, now bright with fever, was dull and non-committal in daily life; and perhaps only the ramifications of his wrinkles could have revealed what particular ambitions had seamed his soul.
“Good evening, Amherst. I’m down with a confounded cold.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” the young man forced himself to say.
“Can’t get my breath—that’s the trouble.” Truscomb paused and gasped. “I’ve just heard that Mrs. Westmore is here—and I want' you to go round—tomorrow morning—” He had to break off once more.
“Yes, sir,” said Amherst, his heart leaping.
“Needn’t see her—ask for her father, Mr. Langhope. Tell him what the doctor says—I’ll be on my legs in a day or two—ask ’em to wait till I can take ’em over the mills.”
He shot one of his fugitive glances at his assistant, and held up a bony hand. “Wait a minute. On your way there, stop and notify Mr. Gaines. He was to meet them here. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Amherst; and at that moment Mrs. Truscomb appeared on the threshold.
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