Here, put the rest of your things in
your grip and jam it shut. We'll get something to eat on the
train--I hope. I'll wire we're coming. Don't forget to latch the
door."
Kennedy was already half-way to the elevator, and I followed
ruefully, still thinking of the ocean and the piers, the bands
and the roller chairs.
It was a good ten-hour journey up to the little station nearest
Camp Hang-out and at least a two hour ride after that. We had
plenty of time to reflect over what this death might mean to Tom
and his sister and to speculate on the manner of it. Tom and
Grace Langley were relatives by marriage of Lewis Langley, who,
after the death of his wife, had made them his proteges. Lewis
Langley was principally noted, as far as I could recall, for
being a member of some of the fastest clubs of both New York and
London. Neither Kennedy nor myself had shared in the world's
opinion of him, for we knew how good he had been to Tom in
college and, from Tom, how good he had been to Grace. In fact, he
had made Tom assume the Langley name, and in every way had
treated the brother and sister as if they had been his own
children.
Tom met us with a smart trap at the station, a sufficient
indication, if we had not already known, of the "roughing it" at
such a luxurious Adirondack "camp" as Camp Hang-out.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233