For the hundredth time King felt his heart sink as he thought of that prevented last interview.  His mother had prevented it.  It was perfectly true that he was out, and away from home—­out in a wheeled chair, which had been pushed by Franz through a gap in the hedge between the Kings’ lawn and the Wentworths’ next door.  Just on the other side of that hedge the chair had paused, where Sally Wentworth, his friend of long standing, was serving tea to a little group of young people, all intimates and all delighted to have the invalid once more in their midst.  Under the group of great copper beeches which made of that corner of the Wentworth lawn a summer drawing room, King had sat in his chair drinking tea and listening to gay chatter—­and wondering why he had not been able to get Anne Linton on the telephone so far that day.  And at that very time, so he now bitterly reflected, she and Mrs. Burns had made their call upon him, only to be told by Mrs. King that he was “out.”

His mother was unquestionably a lady, and she had told the truth; he could not conceive of her doing otherwise.  He knew that she undoubtedly, quite as Anne had said, had made the call a pleasant one.  But she had known that he was within a stone’s throw of the house, and that he would be bitterly disappointed not to be summoned.  She had not mentioned to him the fact of the call at all until next day—­when Anne Linton had been gone a full two hours upon her train.  Then, when he had called up Mrs. Burns, in a fever of haste to learn what had happened and what there might yet be a chance of happening, he had discovered that Ellen herself had tried three times to get him, upon the telephone, and had at last realized—­though this she did not say—­that it was not intended that she should.

King understood his mother perfectly.  She would scorn directly to deceive him, yet to intrigue quietly but effectively against him in such a case as this she would consider only her duty.  She had seen clearly his interest in the stranger, unintroduced and unvouched for, taken in by kind people in an emergency, and though showing unquestionable marks of breeding, none the less a stranger.  She had feared for him, in his present vulnerable condition; and she had done her part in preventing that final parting which might have contained elements of danger.  That was all there was to it.

For the present King was helpless, and there could be no possible use in reproaching his mother for her action—­or lack of action.  Once let him get up on his feet, his own master once more—­then it would be of use to talk.  And talk he would some day.  Also he would act.  Meanwhile—­

Red Pepper Burns came out of the house and scrutinized his friend and patient closely as he approached.  “Want to go on, or shall I take you home?” he inquired.

“Take me on—­anywhere—­everywhere!  Something inside will break loose if you don’t.”  King spoke with a smothered note of irritation new to him in Burns’s experience.