"Where what?" Mr. Schofield asked testily. "What are you talking about?" His nerves were jarred, and he was rather hoarse after what he had been saying to Penrod. (That regretful necromancer was now upstairs doing unhelpful things to his nose over a washstand.) "What do you mean by, 'Where, where, where?'" Mr. Schofield demanded. "I don't see any sense to it."
"But where is your old classmate?" she cried. "Where's Mr. Gilling?"
She was the first to notice this striking absence.
"By George!" Mr. Schofield exclaimed. "Where IS old Joe?"
Margaret intervened. "You mean that tall, pale man who was calling?" she asked.
"Pale, no!" said her father. "He's as flushed as--"
"He was pale when _I_ saw him," Margaret said. "He had his hat and coat, and he was trying to get out of the front door when I came running downstairs. He couldn't work the catch for a minute; but before I got to the foot of the steps he managed to turn it and open the door. He went out before I could think what to say to him, he was in such a hurry. I guess everything was so confused you didn't notice--but he's certainly gone."
Mrs. Schofield turned to her husband.
"But I thought he was going to stay to dinner!" she cried.
Mr. Schofield shook his head, admitting himself floored. Later, having mentally gone over everything that might shed light on the curious behaviour of old Joe, he said, without preface:
"He wasn't at all dissipated when we were in college."
Mrs. Schofield nodded severely. "Maybe this was just the best thing could have happened to him, after all," she said.
"It may be," her husband returned. "I don't say it isn't. BUT that isn't going to make any difference in what I'm going to do to Penrod!"