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Sale of Dresse
hension. "Felix Underwood is dead. Dropped on the street as they were coming out of the show. I may be back."
Silence held the room as he turned away and strode rapidly down the hall. Felix had been a favorite far beyond his wildest imagination, in spite of his Caliban exterior. More men than Daniels had looked beyond the gross, distorted flesh to the Godlike soul inside. Furtively each man glanced at the others, feeling a keen, overwhelming sense of loss.
No more would the rumbling basso strive earnestly to assure Doc Hammerton that he ought to use Red Devil spark plugs. No more would they all sit in indulgent amusement while the deep thunderous bass argued Tink Wardell out of buying a V-type engine. No more would the depression in the big leather chair by the fireplace support that monstrous bulk while they crowded around him, jeering, deriding, jesting, but admiring and loving him at the same time. Felix Underwood was dead!
Several pairs of eyes turned to the great empty chair. No one else ever sat in it. Long since, because it was the only chair there in which he sat in comfort, it was by unspoken, common consent Felix's chair. With a sudden under-the-breath oath and a catch in his throat, Tink Wardell sprang to his feet, crossed the room and turned the big chair gently face to the wall.
But the banker's eyes, alone of all the eyes watching him, saw not the worn, shiny back of the chair—but only a small, green-dyed sprig of immortelle.
Did Felix Underwood reach back from the grave to do what he had promised? Read the next thrilling chapters of this story, in next month's issue.
