Leaving the bank, he hastened, by electric car, to Fortieth Street
and Broadway, and then walked eagerly off into the street of the
numeral. He had not yet come to the point where he felt like
scorning the cars, even though a roll of banknotes was tucked
snugly away in a pocket that seemed to swell with sudden
affluence. Old Hendrick, faithful servitor through two
generations, was sweeping the autumn leaves from the sidewalk when
Montgomery came up to the house.

"Hello, Hendrick," was the young man's cheery greeting. "Nice lot
of leaves you have there."

"So?" ebbed from Hendrick, who did not even so much as look up
from his work. Hendrick was a human clam.

"Mrs. Gray in?"

A grunt that signified yes.

"You're as loquacious as ever, Hendrick."

A mere nod.

Brewster let himself in with his own latch key, threw his hat on a
chair and unceremoniously bolted into the library. Margaret was
seated near a window, a book in her lap. The first evidence of
unbiased friendship he had seen in days shone in her smile. She
took his hand and said simply, "We are glad to welcome the
prodigal to his home again."