The grandfather’s clock was booming eight when at length, after a gauntlet of garrulous servants, he pushed back the great, iron-bound doors of the old Spanish room in his cousin’s house and entered.  The war-beaten slab of table-wood, the old lanterns, the Spanish grandee above the mantel, the mended candlestick and its unmarred mate, all brought memories of another night when Starrett’s glass had struck the marble fireplace.  Vividly, too, he recalled how the firelight had stained the square-paneled ceiling of oak overhead, and how Diane had stood in the doorway.  The room was the same.  It was a little hard, however, to reconcile the sullen, resentful, impudent young scapegrace of that other night with the man of to-night.

He put out his hand to touch the second candlestick—­the telephone bell rang.

Carl frowned impatiently and answered it.

“Hello,” said he.  “Yes, this is Carl Granberry speaking . . .  Who? . . .  Oh!  Hello, Hunch, is that you?”

It plainly was.  Moreover, Mr. Dorrigan was very nervous and ill at ease.  Carl laughed with relish.

“What’s the trouble?” he demanded.  “You’re stuttering like a kid . . .  Shut up and begin over again. . . .  Hello. . . .  Yes. . . .  Well, I’ve been out of town since January. . . .  Hum! . . .  Well,” he hinted dryly, “there was sufficient time for an explanation before I went. . . .  I guess you’re right. . . .  I went up to the farm in October with Wherry.”

Mr. Dorrigan desperately admitted that some of the time between the escape of His Nibs and Carl’s departure for the farm had been spent in panic-stricken remorse and dread—­some in the hospital due to an altercation with Link Murphy, who for reasons not immediately apparent wished jealously to obliterate his other eye.  He begged Carl to give him an immediate opportunity of squaring himself, for he had telephoned the house so frequently of late that the butler had grown insulting.  Mr. Dorrigan added that he hoped Mr. Granberry’s wholly justified wrath had somewhat abated, but that for purposes of initial communication the telephone had seemed more prudent.

He was plainly relieved at the answer.

Carl glanced at the tormenting candlestick and sighed.  Another delay!

“All right,” he said finally to Hunch, “come along.  I’ll give you twenty minutes.  If you’re not through then, like as not I’ll stir up the grudge again—­”

The telephone at the other end clicked instantly.  Conceivably Hunch was already on his way up town.

Carl impatiently busied himself with some mail upon the table.  It had followed him from the farm to Palm Beach and from Palm Beach to New York.  There were half a dozen wild letters of gratitude from Wherry and a letter from the old doctor, Wherry’s father, that brought a flush of genuine pleasure to Carl’s face.