OULD I see Mr. Manning?”
The maid stared at the little old gentleman and at the drooping dog in his arms and opened her mouth several times before she could articulate. “Why, why, Mr. Manning's dead, sir!”
The visitor stepped back. He seemed immeasurably shocked and grieved. “Dead—not Mr. Gerald Manning?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl answered, and tears gathered in her eyes. “Yesterday morning!”
“But, but wasn't it very sudden? What could have happened? Dear, dear, this is dreadful! My old friend, Gerald Manning! Could I—could I, do you think, see one of the family—somebody, not Mrs. Manning, of course, but any one who might tell me something of this bereavement?”
“I don't know,” replied the servant, hesitatingly. “Step into the parlor, please, and I'll see if Miss Elsie'll see you.”
“Miss Elsie, of course, if she will, or, perhaps, her sister.”
“Mrs. Wallace isn't here yet. She's coming on from Denver.”
“Of course, of course. I haven't a card. Will you tell her, Mr. Davis, an old friend of her father, wishes to see her?”
“I'll ask her,” murmured the maid.
Mr. Davis tiptoed into the subdued twilight of the drawing-room and looked about him. Everything was costly and in good taste. This should be an easy graft. He waited, seated stiffly on the edge of a massive Empire chair, his face solemn and reflective, as he absently caressed the mongrel that nestled against his breast.
There was a step on the stairs, a stirring of the portières, and a girl dressed in black entered the room. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was composed. “Mr. Davis, the maid tells me you asked to see me. You were”—she choked back a sob—“a friend of my father?”
“My dear Miss Manning,” the old man's tones were vibrant with sympathy, “this is a shock to me, a great shock. I had no idea of what had happened. I—I was passing, and I hadn't seen your dear father in years. I thought to stop in for a reminiscent chat, to exchange the news of old acquaintances—and—I—I can't believe it! It's a blow—a severe blow.”
The girl nodded, turning away he head. “Perhaps you didn't know that father underwent an operation a week ago. We thought him on the way recovery, and then”
“Poor Gerald!” Her visitor continued to fondle the little dog. “He was always so kind, so generous. Tell me, your mother is bearing up well?”
The girl shook her head. “No, she is quite prostrated.”
“And your sister—you are Elsie, of course. It was your sister who married. Ah, I remember, Wallace, that was the name your father told me. Is she coming on from the West?”
“We expect her to-night,” she replied. “We notified her when he began to fail.”
“I suppose, said the old man humbly, “there is nothing I can do.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, nothing. My brother and Doctor Ellis have done all that there is to do, thank you.”
“I wish there was, I wish there was something I could do for Gerald's family in the hour of need. Your dear father was the first person one thought of in an emergency, so kind, so generous. In fact,” he smiled sadly, “it was that very trait in him that led me here to-day. I live in New Rochelle, you see, and I came into town to bring my little dog to the veterinary. Of course they won't allow dogs on trains or on the surface lines. I had to hide him in my coat. It made me an easy prey for some pickpocket, and he picked me clean. 'Oh, heavens,' I said to myself, here's a go!' I was in Grand Central Station, you see, and then I thought of Gerald. I knew that I might find him at home, since he'd retired from active business. 'I'll go right up to Gerald Manning,' I said to myself, 'and borrow enough to do my little shopping and take Vicky to the vet and go home.' I had no more idea that I'd come here and learn that he was dead! Why, I couldn't believe the maid when she told me. She must have thought me daft, the way I looked at her, but it seemed incredible—incredible.”
The dog stirred uneasily and whined.
“Poor little thing,” said Elsie Manning, her eyes softening, “what's the matter?”
“It's his paw,” said the visitor, gently touching a quivering forefoot. “He was run over, oh, quite a while ago, but his shoulder dislocates, and he seems to have recurrent pain. I suppose it's sort of rheumatic; I can't reset the joint, but the vet can. I suppose I could on a pinch, but I'm so afraid of hurting the poor little beggar that I don't trust myself.”
“Of course, Mr. Davis, you must let me lend you what you need. I'm sure father would wish it; and that poor creature should be looked after right away.”