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Updated: June 20, 2025
They started, according to his idea, in the faint shaft of light that crept in to him through Ramsdell's keyhole for, despite all orders, the faithful fellow had flatly refused to put himself into bed until Opdyke himself should be snoring.
The room turned with me. It was he, then, the great financier, the multimillionaire, the husband of the magnificent Grizel, who had entered Mr. Ramsdell's house as a waiter! Mr. Grey did not show surprise, but he made a gesture, when instantly the tray was thrown aside and the man resumed his ordinary aspect. "I see you understand me," he cried.
The resolution had been growing up in her for weeks; it had come to its climax, only that very morning, when she had met Ramsdell on the Opdyke steps. "How is Mr. Opdyke?" she had queried. Then she had caught her breath at Ramsdell's answer. "Rather poorly, Miss Keltridge." She cast a hasty glance upward, to assure herself that Reed's windows were not open.
And when she threw a shovel of coals on Bill Ramsdell's dog, because Bill was a shiftless lout, and the dog was so starved it all the time came over and sucked our eggs, that was a bad impulse, because it didn't do Bill a particle of good, and it hurt the dog, which would have been glad to suck eggs at home, no doubt, if Bill hadn't been too worthless to keep hens.
And then, besides, you would find it so very comforting." "The novel?" "No; the wife. She could take Ramsdell's place, you know." Reed chuckled. "She would need to be a lusty Amazon, Prather, if she took the contract of lugging me about." But Prather waved his hand in circles that were intended to be explanatory. "Not a bit, Opdyke; not a bit," he said, with effervescent cheer.
"Have I made any gain at all?" "Ye es, sir. Oh, yes." Reed smiled grimly. "How much am I going to keep on gaining?" "Well, sir," Ramsdell's accent was supposed to be encouraging; "you see, there's always 'ope, sir." "I'm glad of so much. Well, never mind about that now. I want to send a telegram. Please get the blanks."
Trembling with apprehension, but still strangely divided in his impulses, wishing to serve master and mistress both, without disloyalty to the one or injury to the other, he hesitated and argued with himself, till his fears for the latter drove him to Mr. Ramsdell's house. The night was a stormy one. The heaviest snow of the season was falling with a high gale blowing down the Sound.
Ramsdell's house would be enlivened by her great jewel. So much for Mr. Grey's attitude in this matter up to the night of the ball. It is interesting enough, but that of Abner Fairbrother is more interesting still and much more serious. His was indeed the hand which had abstracted the diamond from Mr. Grey's collection. Under ordinary conditions he was an honest man.
One could only smile, and hand in a card, with the agreeable surety that it would be referred to the upstairs potentate and pigeonholed in Ramsdell's retentive memory as ticket for admission later on, or else a permanent rejection label, past all argument or gainsaying.
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