"I believe he's up at the club. Perhaps he's got
tangled in for a longer game of golf than he reckoned on."
This unintentional and wholly innocent falsehood stopped any inquiry
that there might have been. MacPherson had meant to 'phone the club
during the day, but he failed to do so, and it was not until evening
that he walked up himself to put more cautious inquiries.
"No, sah--no, sah, Mr. Gray ain't been here," the Negro steward told him
promptly. "I sure would have remembered, sah," in answer to a startled
inquiry from MacPherson. "Dey been havin' a big game on between Mr.
Charley Conroy and Mr. Hardwick, and de bofe of 'em spoke of Mr. Gray,
and said dey was expectin' him to play."
MacPherson came down the stone steps of the clubhouse, gravely
disquieted. Below him the road wound, a dimly conjectured, wavering gray
ribbon; on the other side of it the steep slope took off to a gulf of
inky shadow, where the great valley lay, hushed under the solemn stars,
silent, black, and shimmering with a myriad pulsating electric lights
which glowed like swarms of fireflies caught in an invisible net. That
was Watauga. The strings of brilliants that led from it were arc lights
at switch crossings where the great railway lines rayed out. Near at
hand was Cottonville with its vast bulks of lighted mills whose hum came
faintly up to him even at this distance.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282