"How's the baby?" asked John Denby, as Burke dropped himself into a chair on the cool, quiet veranda. "I thought she was not looking very well the last time Helen wheeled her up here." Always John Denby's first inquiry now was for his little granddaughter. "Eh? The baby? Oh, she--she's all right. That is"--Burke paused for a short laugh--"she's _well_." John Denby took his cigar from his lips and turned sharply. "But she's _not_--all right?" Burke laughed again. "Oh, yes, she's all right, too, I suppose," he retorted, a bit grimly. "But she was--er--humph! Well, I'll tell you." And he gave a graphic description of his return home that night. "Jove, what a mess!--and _ink_, too," ejaculated John Denby, with more than a tinge of sympathy in his voice. "How'd she ever manage to clean it up?" Burke shrugged his shoulders. "Ask me something easy. I don't know, I'm sure. I cleared out." "Without--your dinner?" John Denby asked the question after a very brief, but very tense, silence. "My dinner--I got in the square." Burke's lips snapped together again tight shut. John Denby said nothing. His eyes were gravely fixed on the glowing tip of the cigar in his hand. Burke cleared his throat and hesitated. He had not intended to ask his question quite so soon; but suddenly he was consumed with an overwhelming desire to speak out and get it over. He cleared his throat again. "Dad--would you mind--my sleeping here to-night? It's just that I--I want a good night's sleep, for once," he plunged on hurriedly, in answer to a swift something that he saw leap to his father's eyes. "And I can't get it there--with the baby and all." There was a perceptible pause. Then, steadily, and with easy cordiality, came John Denby's reply. "Why, certainly, my boy. I'm glad to have you. I'll ring at once for Benton to see that--that your old room is made ready for you," he added, touching a push-button near his chair. Later, when Benton had come and gone, with his kindly old face alight and eager, Burke braced himself for what he thought was inevitable. Something would come, of course. The only question was, what would it be? But nothing came--that is, nothing in the nature of what Burke had expected. John Denby, after Benton had left the veranda, turned to his son with a pleasantly casual-- "Oh, Brett was saying to-day that the K. & O. people had granted us an extension of time on that bridge contract." "Er--yes," plunged in Burke warmly. And with the words, every taut nerve and muscle in his body relaxed as if cut in twain. It came later, though, when he had ceased to look for it. It came just as he was thinking of saying good-night. "It has occurred to me, son," broached John Denby, after a short pause, "that Helen may be tired and in sore need of a rest." Burke caught his breath, and held it a moment suspended. When before had his father mentioned Helen, save to speak of her casually in connection with the baby?