“Lenore, I thought you’d never come,” she said.  “I know something.  Only dad told me not to tell you.”

“Then don’t,” replied Lenore, with a little start.

“But I’d never keep it,” burst out Kathleen, breathlessly.  “Dad’s going to New York.”

Lenore’s heart contracted.  She did not know how she felt.  Somehow it was momentous news.

“New York!  What for?” she asked.

“He says it’s about wheat.  But he can’t fool me.  He told me not to mention it to you.”

The girl was keen.  She wanted to prepare Lenore, yet did not mean to confide her own suppositions.  Lenore checked a rush of curiosity.  They went into the house.  Lenore hurried to change her outing clothes and boots and then went down to supper.  Rose sat at table, but her father had not yet come in.  Lenore called him.  He answered, and presently came tramping into the dining-room, blustering and cheerful.  Not for many months had Lenore given her father such close scrutiny as she did then.  He was not natural, and he baffled her.  A fleeting, vague hope that she had denied lodgment in her mind seemed to have indeed been wild and unfounded.  But the very fact that her father was for once unfathomable made this situation remarkable.  All through the meal Lenore trembled, and she had to force herself to eat.

“Lenore, I’d like to see you,” said her father, at last, as he laid down his napkin and rose.  Almost he convinced her then that nothing was amiss or different, and he would have done so if he had not been too clever, too natural.  She rose to follow, catching Kathleen’s whisper: 

“Don’t let him put it over on you, now!”

Anderson lighted a big cigar, as always after supper, but to Lenore’s delicate sensitiveness he seemed to be too long about it.

“Lenore, I’m takin’ a run to New York—­leave to-night at eight—­an’ I want you to sort of manage while I’m gone.  Here’s some jobs I want the men to do—­all noted down here—­an’ you’ll answer letters, ’phone calls, an’ all that.  Not much work, you know, but you’ll have to hang around.  Somethin’ important might turn up.”

“Yes, dad.  I’ll be glad to,” she replied.  “Why—­why this sudden trip?”

Anderson turned away a little and ran his hand over the papers on his desk.  Did she only imagine that his hand shook a little?

“Wheat deals, I reckon—­mostly,” he said.  “An’ mebbe I’ll run over to Washington.”

He turned then, puffing at his cigar, and calmly met her direct gaze.  If there were really more than he claimed in his going, he certainly did not intend to tell her.  Lenore tried to still her mounting emotion.  These days she seemed all imagination.  Then she turned away her face.

“Will you try to find out if Kurt Dorn died of his wound—­and all about him?” she asked, steadily, but very low.

“Lenore, I sure will!” he exclaimed, with explosive emphasis.  No doubt the sincerity of that reply was an immense relief to Anderson.  “Once in New York, I can pull wires, if need be.  I absolutely promise you I’ll find out—­what—­all you want to know.”