When the
sound of a cautiously closed door told her that Broffin had entered the
sick-room, she snatched the receiver of the library house 'phone from
its hook and held it to her ear. For a little time keen anxiety wrote
its sign manual in the knitted brows and the tightly pressed lips. Then
she smiled and the dark eyes grew softly radiant. "The dear old saint!"
she whispered; "the dear, _dear_ old saint!" And when Broffin came down
a few minutes later, she went to open the hall door for him, serenely
demure and with honey on her tongue, as befitted the role of
"everybody's good angel."

"Did you find him worse than you feared, or better than you hoped?" she
asked.

"He's mighty near the edge, I should say--what? But you never can tell.
Some of these old fellows can claw back to the top o' the hill after all
the doctors in creation have thrown up their hands. I've seen it. What
does Doc Farnham say?"

"What he always says; 'while there's life, there's hope.'"

Broffin nodded and went his way down the walk, stopping at the gate to
take up the cigar he had hidden on his arrival.

"So Galbraith's out of it, lock, stock and barrel," he muttered, as he
strode thoughtfully townward. "I reckoned it'd be that-a-way, as soon as
I heard the story o' that shipwreck. And now I ain't so blamed sure that
it's Raymer a-holdin' the fort in them pretty black eyes. The old man
talked like a man that had just been honeyfugled and talked over and
primed plum' up to the muzzle. Why the blue blazes can't she take her
iron-moulder fellow and be satisfied? She can't swing to _both_ of 'em.
Ump!--the old man wanted me to skip out on a wild-goose chase to 'Frisco
in that bond business, and take the first train! Sure, I'll go--but not
to-day; oh, no, by grapples; not this day!"

It was possibly an hour beyond Broffin's visit when Margery, having
successfully read the sick man to sleep, tiptoed out of the room and
went below stairs to shut herself into the hall telephone closet. The
number she asked for was that of the Raymer Foundry and Machine Works,
and Raymer, himself, answered the call.

"Are you awfully busy?" she asked.

"Up to my chin--yes. But that doesn't count if I can do anything for
you."

"Have you heard anything yet from Mr.--from our friend?"

"Not a word. But I'm not worrying any more now."

"Why aren't you?"

"Because I've been remembering that he is the happy--or
unhappy--possessor of the 'artistic temperament'