"Your mother is doing just what I want her to do," the doctor replied, interrupting her. "She is doing very well, indeed. It's only a precaution, my dear little girl. I don't want you to worry, Sally.

I'll look out for your mother. You needn't do anything but follow the directions I gave you. You can do that easily. And don't worry, Sally, whatever happens."

The quick tears had rushed to Sally's eyes as Doctor Galen spoke. "Oh, yes, indeed, I can," she said, "and I won't." This speech was not as clear as it might have been, and Sally realized it. "Oh, I mean--"

"I know what you mean," the doctor returned, patting her shoulder.

"You're a good girl, Sally. Now, I must go."

When the doctor went out at the gate, a few minutes later, he was smiling. I don't know what he was smiling at, but it may have been at the recollection of a kiss which Sally had just bestowed upon him. It had taken him somewhat by surprise. It had been almost as much of a surprise to Sally.

"Well," he said to himself, "that was pretty good pay, considering.

But it's just as well that the Mrs. Van Hoofes don't--h.e.l.lo!"

For there, before him, was Professor Ladue, walking rapidly, his eyes red and bloodshot, and looking generally tousled. The doctor glanced at him, took in these details, and decided quickly that it would be wiser not to speak. Accordingly, he pa.s.sed the professor with no more than a bow. The professor glared at him, bowed shortly, then half turned.

"A lovely spring afternoon, Doctor," he said, clearly and coldly, with the grimace which did duty for a smile. It was even less like one than usual.

"Charming!" the doctor replied.

"I should not suppose," continued the professor, almost snarling, "that a man of your engagements would have time for profitless excursions into the country."

"Ah," the doctor returned, smiling, "but it was not profitless. I have been to a birthday party; the party of Miss Sally Ladue."

What reply should the professor have made to that? The professor, at least, did not know. He turned, again, without a word.

Doctor Galen looked after him, still smiling. Then he, too, turned again. "I am sorry for Sally," he murmured, sighing. "But Sanderson is there. He must get her out of it somehow."

Sanderson could not get her out of it, as it happened. The little bunch of guests was halfway down the walk, laughing and talking; even Sally laughed a little, although she did not talk much, and her eye was alert for anybody who might come in at the gate. She hoped, fervently, that n.o.body would come in at that gate until the girls were out of it and safe at home. Then her father emerged from behind the screen of bushes along the wall and swung the gate wide.

Sally gave one look. "Oh, Fox!" she cried.

But Fox had seen and had run forward.

"Why such haste, Mr. Sanderson?" sneered the professor. "Why such haste? I require no a.s.sistance."

He went on toward the house, smiling at the girls as he pa.s.sed. The way opened quickly before that smile of the professor's, and the laughter and the talk died. The effect was astonishing. And while he made his way rapidly onward, closely followed by Fox, the group of Sally's guests fairly melted away. Once outside the gate, and behind the sheltering screen, they ran.

Sally met Fox just coming out.

"It's all right, Sally," he said. "I persuaded him that no noise is to be made. I persuaded him."

Sally looked at Fox in wonder. "It didn't take long."

"No, it didn't take long." There were curious firm lines about Fox's mouth and his voice was not quite steady. What the nature of the persuasion was, which was so effective and in so short a time, Sally was not likely to know.

CHAPTER X

Professor Ladue was rather more out of sorts with the world in general than was usual on such occasions. He was very much out of sorts with the world in general and with three of its inhabitants in particular: with his wife, because he was unable, for reasons which Fox had made clear to him in a very short time, to wreak his ill temper upon her; with Fox, because he had succeeded so well in making those reasons clear; and with Doctor Galen, because he was sure that the doctor was attending Mrs. Ladue. Perhaps I should have said that the professor was out of sorts with four persons in particular. The fourth person was Sally. It is hard to see why he should have been put out with her, who had done nothing to deserve it. But she was good and dutiful and she saw through him clearly enough; and by so doing she kindled in him a feeling of helpless resentment.

Of course, we know very well that the professor's behavior was, itself, the real cause of his feeling. The professor knew that well enough. He was not dull-witted, whatever else he was. And, because he knew it, he raged; and, because there was no outlet for his rage, he raged the more, coldly. Those cold rages of his fairly scared Sally, and she was not easily scared.

His rage was not any the less because of a letter that Sally brought up to him, late in the afternoon. She had shrunk from seeing him, but the letter was from the college, bearing the university arms in the corner, and it was for special delivery. So Sally thought that it might be very important. There was no one else to take it to her father, so she took it, and, in obedience to his brief command, and with great inward relief, she tucked it under his door.

The letter was important, although not in the way that Sally had surmised. It was from the provost of the university of which the professor's college was a part, written with the venerable provost's own hand and apparently in some haste. It stated that Mr. Ladue had, that very day, been seen, by the provost and by one other member of the governing body, to issue from a well-known gambling-house. That fact, coupled with the rumors which had persisted for a year or two past, made it imperative that Mr. Ladue should appear before the Board of Governors, at their next meeting, to clear himself; or, if he preferred, Mr. Ladue might send in his resignation at once, such resignation to take effect at the close of the college year.

That was all. One would think that it was quite enough. Professor Ladue looked up from his brief reading.

"Ah!" he cried airily. "The honorable provost addresses me as Mr.

Ladue. _Mr._ Ladue. And so I am to appear before the Board of Governors for the purpose of clearing myself--of what? I am accused of coming out of a house. After all, it is a very quiet, respectable-looking house, indeed, in a quiet street, rubbing elbows with other quiet, respectable-looking houses. Does it happen that the honorable provost and that other member of the governing body have seen more than the outside of that house? Do I appear before the Board of Governors? I do not. And do I send in my resignation like a good little boy? I think not. The honorable provost is a fool. I will write him a letter and tell him so."

So saying, the professor--we may call him the professor for almost the last time--the professor went to his desk and wrote the letter. He was in just the mood to write such a letter and it is to be remembered that he dealt naturally in caustics. Consequently, the letter was an excellent letter; it was exactly what it was meant to be. It was a model of its kind. There is little doubt that it was a poor kind and that it was very unwise to send it. Having been written, it should have been burned--utterly destroyed. It would have served its purpose better. But the professor was in no mood to do what was merely wise.

He was pleased with the letter, proud of it. He was so pleased with it that he read it over three times. Then he laughed and signed it.

"That will, perhaps, make them sit up. It would give me some pleasure to be present when he reads it." The professor gazed out into the great tree, musing pleasantly. "No, it can't be done. It is a matter of regret that it cannot."

He sealed the letter and went out, at once, to mail it. He was quite cheerful as he took his hat and his stick from the rack in the hall; so cheerful that Charlie, who happened to catch sight of him, was encouraged to hail him. He answered pleasantly, even buoyantly, so that Sally was sure that she had been right and that the letter which she had carried up had been important.

The cheerfulness of the professor was spurious, but, such as it was, it lasted, unimpaired, until the letter was posted. The mail was just going out, and the postmaster, obliging as postmasters invariably are, held it long enough to slip in the letter to the provost. The professor saw it go; then doubts began to a.s.sail him, and his cheerfulness ebbed. He stood irresolute until he heard the train. It was useless to stand irresolute longer. It is always useless to stand irresolute for any length of time whatever. The professor knew that very well. With a quick compression of the lips, he turned homeward.

He was no longer cheerful.

No doubt I was wrong in speaking of him as the professor that last time. He was, henceforth, to be Mr. Ladue. His professorial career had been cut off by that letter to the provost as cleanly and as suddenly as by a sharp axe. That would be true of any college. Mr. Ladue did not deceive himself about that. There was a need of adjustment to the new conditions, and he set himself the task of thinking out just what the new conditions were. He was so busy with his thinking that he nearly ran into a young man. The young man had just issued from Mr.

Ladue's own gate. But was it his gate? Mr. Ladue happened to have got to that very matter. There seemed to be a reasonable doubt of it; indeed, as he progressed farther in his thinking-out process and his recollection emerged from the fog of habit, there seemed to be no doubt that it was not his gate at all and that he had been allowed to think of it as his and to call it his, purely on sufferance.

For he remembered, with a shock, a thoughtless moment, a moment of inadvertence,--a moment of insanity,--in which he had made over the place to his wife, Sarah. He had got into the habit of forgetting all about it. Now it was necessary that he should get out of that habit.

He had never regretted that act more keenly than at that moment. It was the act of a madman, he told himself impatiently.

As these thoughts pa.s.sed rapidly through his mind, the aforesaid young man had gone on his way. If he was to speak, he must speak quickly.

He turned. "Oh, Fox," he said casually, "I am afraid I was rather abrupt a short time ago. Pray accept my apologies."

It was a new role for Mr. Ladue. It cost him something to a.s.sume it, but it was necessary to his purposes that he should. This was one of the new conditions which must be faced. It was an opportunity which must be seized before it ceased to be. For Fox it was a totally new experience to receive an apology from a man like Mr. Ladue. The experience was so new that he blushed with embarra.s.sment and stammered.

"Oh,--er--that's all right. Certainly. Don't apologize." He managed to pull himself together, knowing that what he had said was not the right thing at all. "And, Professor," he added, "shall we resume our studies when Mrs. Ladue is better?--when she will not be disturbed?"

Fox did not know as much about Mr. Ladue's affairs as we know, or he might not have called him by that t.i.tle. But yet he might.

"To be sure," answered Mr. Ladue, apparently in surprise; "why not?

Is she in a condition to be disturbed by such little matters? I had rather expected to see her, to talk over an important question." If Fox chose to infer that the important question related to certain delinquencies of his own, why, let him think so.

"I am afraid that will be impossible for some time," Fox replied firmly. "Dr. Galen left instructions that she is, on no account, to be disturbed. She is not to be compelled to think. It seems to be important. His instructions were explicit and emphatic on that point."

"Ah," Mr. Ladue remarked calmly. "So Dr. Galen is running my house."

"Yes." There was no lack of firmness in Fox's voice, although he was not flushing now. "Dr. Galen is running your house. That is the situation exactly."