stood staring out into the lake. He could not hear the distress signals now.
Suddenly he turned. Constance Sherrill, seeing him from a window of her home, had caught a cape about her and run out to him.
"Uncle Benny!" she hailed him with the affectionate name she had used with her father's partner since she was a baby. "Uncle Benny, aren't you coming in?"
"Yes," he said vaguely. "Yes, of course." He made no move but remained staring at her. "Connie!" he exclaimed suddenly, with strange reproach to himself in his tone. "Connie! Dear little Connie!"
"Why?" she asked him. "Uncle Benny, what's the matter?"
He seemed to catch himself together. "There was a ship out there in trouble," he said in a quite different tone. "They aren't blowing any more; are they all right?"
"It was one of the M and D boats—the Louisiana, they told me. She went by here blowing for help, and I called up the office to find out. A tug and one other of their line got out to her; she had started a cylinder head bucking the ice and was taking in a little water. Uncle Benny, you must put on your coat."
She brushed the sleet from his shoulders and collar, and held the coat for him; he put it on obediently.
"Has Spearman been here to-day?" he asked, not looking at her.
"To see father?"
"No; to see you."
"No."
He seized her wrist. "Don't see him, when he comes!" he commanded.
