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Page 60
Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything
and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal
annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little
society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the
South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to
nothing. On the other hand--
The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the
secretary, who had turned white.
He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco:
Picked up by fishing schooner 'We're Here' having fallen off boat
great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care
Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is
Mama Harvey N. Cheyne.
The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the
shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs.
Cheyne's doctor who found Cheyne pacing to and fro.
"What--what d' you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning
to it? I can't quite make it out," he cried.
"I can," said the doctor. "I lose seven thousand a year--that's all." He
thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at
Cheyne's imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh.
"You mean you'd tell her? 'May be a fraud?"
"What's the motive?" said the doctor, coolly. "Detection's too
certain. It's the boy sure enough."
Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is
kept on only by large wages.
"Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are
seek."
The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed
Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great
white-wood square staircase cried: "What is it? What has
happened?"
No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing
house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news.
"And that's all right," said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter.
"About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is
that joy don't kill, Miss Kinzey."
"I know it; but we've a heap to do first." Miss Kinzey was from
Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned
towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was
looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall.
"Milsom, we're going right across. Private car--straight
through--Boston. Fix the connections," shouted Cheyne down the
staircase.
"I thought so."
The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of
that was born a story--nothing to do with this story). She looked
inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to
the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept
his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and
set to work, while Miss Kinzey's white fingers called up the
Continent of America.
"K. H. Wade, Los Angeles The 'Constance' is at Los Angeles, isn't
she, Miss Kinzey?"
"Yep." Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked
at his watch.
"Ready? Send 'Constance,' private car, here, and arrange for
special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York
Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next."
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