"And may I ask," Mr. Ladue inquired coldly,--"may I venture to ask how it happens that a specialist--one of the most expensive in the city--is in such a position that he can a.s.sume to do so?"

"Certainly you may. I will try to make it clear that it was necessary, but it will not alter the situation if I fail. Immediately after your leaving for town, Mrs. Ladue had one of her attacks. It seemed to Sally--and to me--essential that she should have expert advice at once. So--in your absence--I sent for Dr. Galen. I am very glad that I did."

"Do you know what his price will be?"

"I do not. What difference does it make? Mrs. Ladue's life may depend upon her having the best advice there is to be had."

Mr. Ladue did not answer immediately. He could not well say to Fox that that was a matter of less importance to himself than the price that would be charged. Besides, he was not sure that it mattered to him what Dr. Galen charged. He had no intention of paying it. They ought to have known that they could not saddle him with their bills without his consent. Further than that----

"It's all right, of course, Fox," said Mr. Ladue pleasantly, looking up. "I didn't realize that Mrs. Ladue's condition was serious. Thank you. Come in as soon as you think it advisable and we will continue our studies. Good-night."

"Good-night." Fox turned away with a curious mingling of feeling toward Mr. Ladue. He could not help feeling grateful to him, yet he did not trust him. What next?

That was precisely the question Mr. Ladue was asking himself as he walked slowly toward the house. What next? It was most unfortunate that he could not see his wife, most unfortunate. If he could have the chance to talk to his wife, Sarah, now, he thought he could persuade her. Give him but five minutes and he was sure he could persuade her.

He would do better to have the papers ready. He wondered whether he dared; and, for an instant, he entertained the idea of having that talk, in spite of Fox and of Dr. Galen. He thought upon it.

"No," he said to himself, "it wouldn't do, under the circ.u.mstances. It wouldn't do. We'll have to give that up."

Mr. Ladue deserved no credit for deciding to give that up. It is to be feared that the possibility of evil consequences to his wife, Sarah, played no part in forcing him to that decision. The important thing is that he did so decide. In the short time that remained before dinner, he walked to and fro in his room, thinking hard. He could do that very well when he applied himself to it. At dinner he was unexpectedly pleasant, giving Sally a sense of security that was not at all justified by the event. In that, no doubt, he was doing just what he intended.

That evening, having devoted a certain brief time to thinking to some purpose, he packed his bag and wrote a short note to his wife. It is immaterial what he said in that note, but he ended it with these words: "So you may keep your place, madam, and much good may it do you. In fact, I think that you will have to keep it. You could not give a good deed or a good mortgage without my signature." It seemed an entirely uncalled-for evidence of his ill humor. What had Mrs.

Ladue done to deserve it?

In the morning he came to breakfast as usual, and again he was very pleasant. Indeed, he was so pleasant that the fact excited Sally's suspicions. He was not usually so pleasant on the morning after. And when he had gone to his customary train--carrying a bag, Sally noted--she found his note, sealed, and addressed, in her father's well-known scrawling hand, to her mother. She took possession of the note. Of only one thing was she sure and that was that no note written by her father--and sealed--was going to be delivered to her mother; at least, not without advice.

Later she showed the note to Fox; and he, being as uncertain what ought to be done as Sally was, showed it to Dr. Galen. They three decided, much against their will, to see what Mr. Ladue had said.

"For," Dr. Galen observed, "Mrs. Ladue is not in condition to read a note of any kind. She will not be in that condition for a week, at least. It seems to me, Sally, that you should know what your father says, especially in view of the circ.u.mstances. I advise you to open it."

"You do it," said Sally.

So the doctor did it. "Of course," he remarked, as he slid the blade of his knife under the flap, "if, on glancing at it, I see that it is improper for me to read, I shall not read it. But if, as I fear--"

He was reading it. "The cur!" he muttered, as he finished. He handed it to Fox. "You read it, Mr. Sanderson."

Fox read it and chuckled. "I ought not to laugh," he explained, "but it is so--so futile. Delivery to Mrs. Ladue seems out of the question.

And, Sally," he went on, "you shall see this if you want to, but I wish that you would not want to. Your father has gone, apparently."

"Yes," said Sally, somewhat puzzled, "I know it; to the university?"

"Not to the university, I think. He seems to have lit out. He says something about getting another position suited to him. He says some other things that it would give you only pain to read."

Sally's face expressed a curious mingling of anxiety and relief. "I won't read it if you don't want me to," she said. "But--but what--how shall we get any money?"

"Don't you worry about that. We'll manage to raise a few cents when we need to."

Fox had said "we" and that seemed to comfort Sally. Fox turned to the doctor.

"The environment has taken care of itself," he remarked; and the doctor smiled.

CHAPTER XI

It was in all the papers. The honorable provost seemed to wish that the fact of Professor Ladue's break with the authorities of the university should be known, and he graciously allowed himself to be interviewed on the subject once a week. As was to be expected, but one side of the question was presented in these interviews, but that may have worked no injury to Mr. Ladue, who received undeserved credit for his silence. It was just as well. In none of those interviews did the honorable provost give out the letter that Mr. Ladue had written. That letter contained certain pointed pa.s.sages which the press should not get hold of, if he could help it. Mr. Ladue had some reason to be proud.

Then the reporters began to come out to Mr. Ladue's house, in the hope of an interview with him. They did manage to get a few words with Sally, but the words were very few and then Fox came in. So it came about that Fox Sanderson spent most of his time, from breakfast-time until bedtime, at the Ladues'. Naturally, Henrietta was there, too.

Sally was well content with any arrangement which brought them both there all the time.

Those would have been hard times with the Ladues if it had not been for Fox Sanderson. Mrs. Ladue owned the place, to be sure, but she owned very little else; hardly more than enough to pay the taxes. And if Mr. Ladue had been a hard man to extract money from, at least he had kept the tradesmen satisfied; or, if not satisfied, they were never sufficiently dissatisfied to refuse to supply the necessities.

It was a different case now, and Sally wondered a good deal how they contrived to get along. She knew that Fox was managing their affairs, but things had been going on in this way for a long time before she got to the point of wondering whether he was supplying the money. She reached that point at last, and she asked Fox about it.

She had waited until she got him alone and was sure that they would not be interrupted.

"Fox," she asked without preamble, "where do we get our money?"

Fox was taken by surprise. He had not been expecting any question of the kind. He found himself embarra.s.sed and hesitating.

"Why," he answered, not looking at her, "why--our money? Er--what do you want to know for?"

Sally was regarding him steadily. "Because," she replied, "I think I ought to. Where do we get it?"

"Oh, don't you care, Sally," said Fox carelessly. "We get it honestly."

Sally's earnest regard did not waver. "Of course we get it honestly.

But where? I think you ought to tell me, Fox. Do you give it to us?"

Sally, bent upon the one purpose, had not thought of sitting down. She stood squarely before Fox, her fingers interlocked before her, and gazed up into his face. Fox shifted his weight to the other foot as she asked the question. Then he laughed a little.

"I give it to you! What an idea!"

"But do you?" Sally insisted. "You haven't said you don't."

"Let's sit down, Sally," said Fox, attempting a diversion. "Aren't you tired?"

"No, I'm not. But you sit down if you want to. Excuse me for keeping you standing."

Fox found a chair and seated himself comfortably. Sally again faced him, still standing.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" asked Fox, seemingly surprised.

"Please do. I can't be satisfied to sit, with you standing." He placed a chair for her.

"All right," Sally moved the chair around so that she would face him, and sat down.

"What a lovely summer day, Sally!" he said. "Isn't it, now?"

Sally laughed. She would not be diverted. "Yes," she said. "But you haven't answered my question."