The editor
turned quickly towards the open door,--so quickly that Mr. Bowers was
fain to turn also.
For a charming instant the figure of Jack Hamlin, handsome, careless,
and confident, was framed in the doorway. His dark eyes, with their
habitual scorn of his average fellow-man, swept superciliously over
Mr. Bowers, and rested for an instant with caressing familiarity on the
editor.
"Well, sonny, any news from the old girl at the Summit?"
"No-o," hastily stammered the editor, with a half-hysterical laugh. "No,
Jack. Excuse me a moment."
"All right; busy, I see. Hasta manana."
The picture vanished, the frame was empty.
"You see," continued the editor, turning to Mr. Bowers, "there has been
a mistake. I"--but he stopped suddenly at the ashen face of Mr. Bowers,
still fixed in the direction of the vanished figure.
"Are you ill?"
Mr. Bowers did not reply, but slowly withdrew his eyes, and turned them
heavily on the editor. Then, drawing a longer, deeper breath, he picked
up his soft felt hat, and, moulding it into shape in his hands as if
preparing to put it on, he moistened his dry, grayish lips, and said,
gently:--
"Friend o' yours?"
"Yes," said the editor--"Jack Hamlin.
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