The spring floods delayed the Eastern Express, bringing the party to Chicago nearly a day late. The Cables and the Harbins went at once to the Annex, where David Cable had taken rooms. They had given up their North Side home some months before, both he and his wife retiring into the seclusion that a great hotel can afford when necessary.
Graydon hurried off to his father's office, eager, yet half fearing to meet the man who was responsible for the broken link in his life--this odd year. He recalled, as he drove across town, that a full year had elapsed since he spent that unforgettable night in Elias Droom's uncanny home. Was he never to forget that night--that night when his soul seemed even more squalid than the home of the recluse?
All of his baggage, except a suit case, had been left at the station. He did not know what had become of his belongings in the former home of his father. Nor, for that matter, did he care.
At the U---- Building he ventured a diffident greeting to the elevator boy, whom he remembered. The boy looked at him quizzically and nodded with customary aloofness. Graydon found himself hoping that he would not meet Bobby Rigby. He also wondered, as the car shot up, how his father had managed to escape from the meshes that were drawn about him on the eve of his departure. His chances had looked black and hopeless enough then; yet, he still maintained the same old offices in the building. His name was on the directory board downstairs. Graydon's heart gave a quick bound with the thought that his father had proved the charges false after all.
Elias Droom was busy directing the labours of two able-bodied men and a charwoman, all of whom were toiling as they had never toiled before. The woman was dusting law books and the men were packing them away in boxes. The front room of the suite was in a state of devastation. A dozen boxes stood about the floor; rugs and furniture were huddled in the most remote corner awaiting the arrival of the "second-hand man"; the floor was littered with paper. Droom was directing operations with a broken umbrella. It seemed like a lash to the toilers.
"Now, let's get through with this room," he was saying in his most impelling way. "The men will be here for the boxes at four. I don't want 'em to wait. This back room stuff we'll put in the trunks. Look out there! Don't you see that nail?"
Eddie Deever, with his usual indolence, was seated upon the edge of the writing table in the corner, smoking his cigarette, and commenting with rash freedom upon the efforts of the perspiring slaves.