Trailin! | Page 8

he heard a muffled footfall and shrank against the wall with a
catlike agility, but, though the shadow fell steep and gloomy there, luck
was against him.
A middle-aged servant of solemn port, serene with the twofold dignity
of double chin and bald head, paused at the table in his progress across
the room, and swept the apartment with the judicial eye of one who
knows that everything is as it should be but will not trust even the
silence of night. So that bland blue eye struck first on the faintly
shining top hat of Anthony, ran down his overcoat, and lingered in
gloomy dismay on the telltale streak of white where the trouser leg
should have been.
What he thought not even another Oedipus could have conjectured. The
young master very obviously did not wish to be observed, and in such
times Peters at could be blinder than the bat noon-day and more secret
than the River Styx. He turned away, unhurried, the fold of that double
chin a little more pronounced over the severe correctness of his collar.
A very sibilant whisper pursued him. He stopped again, still without
haste, and turned not directly toward Anthony, but at a discreet angle,
with his eyes fixed firmly upon the ceiling.

CHAPTER IV
A SESSION OF CHAT
The whisper grew distinct in words.
"Peters, you old numskull, come here!"
The approach of Peters was something like the sidewise waddle of a
very aged crab. He looked to the north, but his feet carried him to the
east. That he was much moved was attested by the colour which had
mounted even to the gleaming expanse of that nobly bald head.
"Yes, Master Anthony--I mean Mr. Anthony?"
He set his teeth at the faux pas.
"Peters, look at me. Confound it, I haven't murdered any one. Are you
busy?"
It required whole seconds for the eyes to wheel round upon Anthony,
and they were immediately debased from the telltale white of that leg to
the floor.
"No, sir."
"Then come up with me and help me change. Quick!"
He turned and fled noiselessly up the great stairs, with Peters panting
behind. Anthony's overcoat was off before he had fairly entered his
room and his coat and vest flopped through the air as Peters shut the
door. Whatever the old servant lacked in agility he made up in certain
knowledge; as he laid out a fresh tuxedo, Anthony changed with the
speed of one pursued. The conversation was spasmodic to a degree.
"Where's father? Waiting in the library?"

"Yes. Reading, sir."
"Had a mix-up--bully time, though--damn this collar! Peters, I wish
you'd been there--where's those trousers? Rub some of the crease out of
'em--they must look a little worn."
He stood at last completely dressed while Peters looked on with a
shining eye and a smile which in a younger man would have suggested
many things.
"How is it? Will I pass father this way?"
"I hope so, sir."
"But you don't think so?"
"It's hard to deceive him."
"Confound it! Don't I know? Well, here's for a try. Soft-foot it down
stairs. I'll go after you and bang the door. Then you say good-evening
in a loud voice and I'll go into the library. How's that?"
"Very good--your coat over your arm--so! Just ruffle your hair a bit,
sir--now you should do very nicely."
At the door: "Go first, Peters--first, man, and hurry, but watch those big
feet of yours. If you make a noise on the stairs I'm done with you."
The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not so
safe was the chuckling of Peters for, though he fought against the
threatening explosion, it rumbled like the roll of approaching thunder.
In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door.
"Good-evening, Mr. Anthony," said Peters loudly, too loudly.
"Evening, Peters. Where's father?"
"In the library, sir. Shall I take your coat?"

"I'll carry it up to my room when I go. That's all."
He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his
father would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was
not even reading. He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he
now removed slowly from his teeth.
"Hello, Anthony."
"Good-evening, sir."
He rose to shake hands with his son: they might have been friends
meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be
formal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew
that the keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot.
"Take this chair."
"Why, sir, wouldn't dream of disturbing you."
"Not a bit. I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me."
John Woodbury rose and gestured his