He nodded. "This morning I should have said that we couldn't; but now--" he reached over to his desk and handed her a letter to which was pinned a telegram less than an hour old. She read the letter first. It was a curt announcement of the withdrawal of the Pineboro Railroad's repair work. The telegram was still briefer: "Disregard my letter of yesterday"; this, and the signature, "Atherton." The small plotter returned the correspondence with a little sigh of relief. It had been worse than she had thought, and it was now better than she had dared hope. "I must be going," she said, rising. "If you will give me my envelope?" He crossed to the safe and got it for her. His curiosity was still keen-edged, but he beat it back manfully. "I wish you wouldn't hurry," he said hospitably. He was searching the changeful eyes for the warrant to say more, but he could not find it. "Yes, I really must," she insisted. "You know we have a sick man at home, and----" "Oh, yes; how is Mr. Galbraith getting along? He has been having a pretty hard time of it, hasn't he?" "Very hard. It is still doubtful if his life can be saved." "He is conscious?" "He has been to-day." "And he understands his condition?" "Perfectly. He had us wire for some of his bank people this morning. The cashier can't come, but he is sending a Mr. Johnson--the paying teller, I believe he is." "Poor old man!" said Raymer, and his sympathy was real. She was moving toward the door, and he went with her. "I know you are not entertaining now--with Mr. Galbraith to be cared for; but I'd like to come and see you, if I may?" he said, when he had gone with her through the outer office and the moment of leave-taking had arrived. "Why not?" she asked frankly. "You have always been welcome, and you always will be." He hesitated, and a blond man's flush crept up under his honest eyes. "I've been hoping all day that you didn't really mean what you said this morning--about my mother and sister, you know," he ventured. "Yes," she affirmed relentlessly; "I did mean it." "But some day you will change your mind--when you come to know them better." "Shall I?" she said, with a ghost of a smile. "Perhaps you are right--when I come to know them better." He was obliged to let it go at that; but when they reached the phaeton, and the horse-holding clerk had been relieved, he spoke of another matter. "I'm a little worried about Kenneth," he told her. "He came down this morning looking positively wretched, but he wouldn't admit that he was sick. Have you seen much of him lately?" "Not very much"--guardedly. "Did you say he had gone home?" "I don't know where he has gone. He left here about half an hour before you came, and I haven't seen him since." "And you are worried because he doesn't look well?" "Not altogether on that account. I'm afraid he is in deep water of some kind. I never saw a person change as he has in the past week or so. You know him pretty well, and what a big heart he has?"