The news of the world had such a trick of suddenly receding a million miles
away from a man the minute he was in trouble. And Roger was in trouble.
With each slow tick of the clock in the hall he grew more certain and more
disturbed. An hour passed. The clock struck nine. With a snort he tossed
his paper aside.
"Well, Edith," he said glumly, "how about some chess this evening?" In
answer she gave him a quick smile of understanding and sympathy.
"All right, father dear." And she fetched the board. But they had played
only a short time when Deborah's latchkey was heard in the door. Roger gave
an angry hitch to his chair. Soon she appeared in the doorway.
"May I talk to you, father?" she asked.
"I suppose so." Roger scowled.
"You'll excuse us, Edith?" she added.
"Oh, assuredly, dear." And Edith rose, looking very much hurt. "Of course,
if I'm not needed--"
At this her father scowled again. Why couldn't Deborah show her sister a
little consideration?
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Suppose we go into the study," she said.
He followed her there and shut the door.
* * * * *
"Well?" he asked, from his big leather chair. Deborah had remained
standing.
"I've got some bad news," she began.
"What is it?" he snapped. "School burnt down?" Savagely he bit off a
cigar.
"I've just had a talk with Harold," she told him. He shot a glance of
surprise and dismay.
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