“Pity some of your murderers, Holker, didn’t start before they stretched their canvases,” laughed Harrington.

And so the hours sped on.

All this time Peter had been listening with one ear wide open—­the one nearest the door—­for any sound in that direction.  French masterpieces Impressionism and the rest of it did not interest him to-night.  Something else was stirring him—­something he had been hugging to his heart all day.

Only the big and little coals in his own fireplace in Fifteenth Street, and perhaps the great back-log, beside himself, knew the cause.  He had not taken Miss Felicia into his confidence—­that would never have done—­might, indeed, have spoilt everything.  Even when he had risen from Morris’s coterie to greet Henry MacFarlane —­Ruth’s father—­his intimate friend for years, and who answered his hand-shake with—­“Well, you old rascal—­what makes you look so happy?—­anybody left you a million?”—­even then he gave no inkling of the amount of bottled sunshine he was at the precise moment carrying inside his well-groomed body, except to remark with all his twinkles and wrinkles scampering loose: 

“Seeing you, Henry—­” an answer which, while it only excited derision and a sly thrust of his thumb into Peter’s ribs, was nevertheless literally true if the distinguished engineer did but know it.

It was only when the hours dragged on and his oft-consulted watch marked ten o’clock that the merry wrinkles began to straighten and the eyes to wander.

When an additional ten minutes had ticked themselves out, and then a five and then a ten more, the old fellow became so nervous that he began to make a tour of the club-house, even ascending the stairs, searching the library and dining-room, scanning each group and solitary individual he passed, until, thoroughly discouraged, he regained his seat only to press a bell lying among some half-empty glasses.  The summoned waiter listened attentively, his head bent low to catch the whispered order, and then disappeared noiselessly in the direction of the front door, Peter’s fingers meanwhile beating an impatient staccato on the arm of his chair.

Nothing resulting from this experiment he at last gave up all hope and again sought MacFarlane who was trying to pound into the head of a brother engineer some new theory of spontaneous explosions.

Hardly had he drawn up a chair to listen—­he was a better listener to-night, somehow, than a talker, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack bending over him.

With a little cry of joy Peter sprang to his feet, both palms outstretched:  “Oh!—­you’re here at last!  Didn’t I say nine o’clock, my dear boy, or am I wrong?  Well, so you are here it’s all right.”  Then with face aglow he turned to MacFarlane:  “Henry, here’s a young fellow you ought to know; his name’s John Breen, and he’s from your State.”

The engineer stopped short in his talk and absorbed Jack from his neatly brushed hair, worn long at the back of his neck, to his well-shod feet, and held out his hand.