He tried to wring her hand, but it felt like a lump of dead, cold flesh.

46All at once the door opened behind them. “Agatha? Oh, here you are!”

46

It was Miss Prince.

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, glancing sharply from the one to the other.

“We were just saying good-bye,” said Harry Garlett quickly. “And I’ll bid you good-bye, too, Miss Prince, for I’m going away this afternoon, and I don’t expect to be back this side of Christmas.”

“Good gracious, man! Are you going round the world?”

“I haven’t made up my mind what I’m going to do.”

“And who will look after the factory?”

“Dodson and Miss Bower. Come, Miss Prince”—his look challenged her—“you’ve never credited me with doing much of the work there, eh?”

47

CHAPTER V

Harry Garlett was lying on the bank of a Norwegian fjord. It was a beautiful warm September day. He felt well in soul and body, and intended to give himself three more months’ good holiday.

With just a touch of reluctance he opened a packet of letters which had followed him to this remote, delicious place. Old Dodson’s letter, doubtless a brief dictated summary of what had been happening at the factory, was, as usual, addressed in the girlish handwriting of Jean Bower.

The sight of that handwriting made his thoughts stray for a while to the place which he still called “home.” He was indeed a lucky chap to have such a steady old soul as Dodson, and such a thoroughly nice, sensible young woman as was Jean Bower, looking after the business from which he drew part of his large income.

He opened the envelope and then, as he read the typewritten sheet, his face clouded with deep and even deeper dismay.

Dear Mr. Garlett

I hope you will not think I am exceeding my duty in writing to tell you that I am becoming very anxious about the state, 

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