And certainly this
particular Warren was not fitted to be elder brother to the New York
broker who had been Sylvester, Kuhn and Graves' client.
It could not be, it COULD not. There must be some mistake. In country
towns there were likely to be several of the same name. There must be
another Elisha Warren. Comforted by this thought, Mr. Graves opened his
valise, extracted therefrom other and drier articles of wearing apparel,
and proceeded to change his clothes.
Meanwhile, Miss Abigail had descended the stairs to the sitting room.
Before a driftwood fire in a big brick fireplace sat Captain Warren in
his shirt-sleeves, a pair of mammoth carpet slippers on his feet, and
the said feet stretched luxuriously out toward the blaze.
"Abbie," observed the captain, "this is solid comfort. Every time I go
away from home I get into trouble, don't I? Last trip I took to Boston,
I lost thirty dollars, and--"
"Lost it!" interrupted Miss Baker, tartly. "Gave it away, you mean."
"I didn't GIVE it away. I lent it. Abbie, you ought to know the
difference between a gift and a loan."
"I do--when there is any difference. But if lendin' Tim Foster ain't
givin' it away, then I miss my guess."
"Well," with another chuckle, "Tim don't feel that way.
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