The artist hurriedly shook hands in the warmest manner with his companions, including the Pierce chap, who had driven them. He beckoned to his secretary, who was waiting with his bags. He mounted the steps of the coach, and as the train pulled out he waved frantically to the three. He kissed his hand to them, looking far out as the train gathered momentum. Again and again he kissed his hand to the hat-waving trio. It was too much. The strain of the afternoon had told even upon my own iron nerves. I felt unequal at that moment to the simplest inquiry, and plainly the situation was not one to attack in haste. I mean to say, it was too pregnant with meaning. I withdrew rapidly from the scene, feeling the need for rest and silence. As I walked I meditated profoundly. CHAPTER SIXTEEN From the innocent lips of Cousin Egbert the following morning there fell a tale of such cold-blooded depravity that I found myself with difficulty giving it credit. At ten o’clock, while I still mused pensively over the events of the previous day, he entered the Grill in search of breakfast, as had lately become his habit. I greeted him with perceptible restraint, not knowing what guilt might be his, but his manner to me was so unconsciously genial that I at once acquitted him of any complicity in whatever base doings had been forward. He took his accustomed seat with a pleasant word to me. I waited. “Feeling a mite off this morning,” he began, “account of a lot of truck I eat yesterday. I guess I’ll just take something kind of dainty. Tell Clarice to cook me up a nice little steak with plenty of fat on it, and some fried potatoes, and a cup of coffee and a few waffles to come. The Judge he wouldn’t get up yet. He looked kind of mottled and anguished, but I guess he’ll pull around all right. I had the chink take him up about a gallon of strong tea. Say, listen here, the Judge ain’t so awful much of a stayer, is he?” Burning with curiosity I was to learn what he could tell me of the day before, yet I controlled myself to the calmest of leisurely questioning in order not to alarm him. It was too plain that he had no realization of what had occurred. It was always the way with him, I had noticed. Events the most momentous might culminate furiously about his head, but he never knew that anything had happened. “The Honourable George,” I began, “was with you yesterday? Perhaps he ate something he shouldn’t.” “He did, he did; he done it repeatedly. He et pretty near as much of that sauerkraut and frankfurters as the piano guy himself did, and that’s some tribute, believe me, Bill! Some tribute!” “The piano guy?” I murmured quite casually. “And say, listen here, that guy is all right if anybody should ask you. You talk about your mixers!” This was a bit puzzling, for of course I had never “talked about my mixers.” I shouldn’t a bit know how to go on. I ventured another query. “Where was it this mixing and that sort of thing took place?”