Thus Mrs. Louden’s long wait at the window was tragically rewarded, and she became an unhappy actor in Canaan’s drama of that day.  Other ladies attended at other windows, or near their front doors, throughout the afternoon:  the families of the three patriarchs awaiting their return, as the time drew on, with something akin to frenzy.  Mrs. Flitcroft (a lady of temper), whose rheumatism confined her to a chair, had her grandson wheel her out upon the porch, and, as the dusk fell and she finally saw her husband coming at a laggard pace, leaning upon his cane, his chin sunk on his breast, she frankly told Norbert that although she had lived with that man more than fifty-seven years, she would never be able to understand him.  She repeated this with genuine symptoms of hysteria when she discovered that the Colonel had not come straight from the Tabor house, but had stopped two hours at Peter Bradbury’s to “talk it over.”

One item of his recital, while sufficiently startling to his wife, had a remarkable effect upon his grandson.  This was the information that Ariel Tabor’s fortune no longer existed.

“What’s that?” cried Norbert, starting to his feet.  “What are you talking about?”

“It’s true,” said the Colonel, deliberately.  “She told me so herself.  Eskew had dropped off into a sort of doze—­more like a stupor, perhaps,—­and we all went into Roger’s old studio, except Louden and the doctor, and while we were there, talkin’, one of Pike’s clerks came with a basket full of tin boxes and packages of papers and talked to Miss Tabor at the door and went away.  Then old Peter blundered out and asked her point-blank what it was, and she said it was her estate, almost everything she had, except the house.  Buckalew, tryin’ to make a joke, said he’d be willin’ to swap his house and lot for the basket, and she laughed and told him she thought he’d be sorry; that all there was, to speak of, was a pile of distillery stock—­” “What?” repeated Norbert, incredulously.

“Yes.  It was the truth,” said the Colonel, solemnly.  “I saw it myself:  blocks and blocks of stock in that distillery trust that went up higher’n a kite last year.  Roger had put all of Jonas’s good money—­”

“Not into that!” shouted Norbert, uncontrollably excited.

“Yes, he did.  I tell you I saw it!”

“I tell you he didn’t.  He owned Granger Gas, worth more to-day than it ever was!  Pike was Roger’s attorney-in-fact and bought it for him before the old man died.  The check went through my hands.  You don’t think I’d forget as big a check as that, do you, even if it was more than a year ago?  Or how it was signed and who made out to?  It was Martin Pike that got caught with distillery stock.  He speculated once too often!”

“No, you’re wrong,” persisted the Colonel.  “I tell you I saw it myself.”

“Then you’re blind,” returned his grandson, disrespectfully; “you’re blind or else—­or else—­” He paused, open-mouthed, a look of wonder struggling its way to expression upon him, gradually conquering every knobby outpost of his countenance.  He struck his fat hands together.  “Where’s Joe Louden?” he asked, sharply.  “I want to see him.  Did you leave him at Miss Tabor’s?”