If Hollister's eyes were the
windows of his soul, he did not keep the blinds drawn, knowing that
few had the hardihood to peer into those windows now.
Mr. Lewis looked at him, looked away, and then his gaze came slowly
back as if drawn by some fascination against which he struggled in
vain. He did not wish to look at Hollister. Yet he was compelled to
look. He seemed to find difficulty in speech, this suave man of
affairs.
"I'm afraid I shouldn't have recognized you, as you say," he uttered,
at last. "Have you--ah----"
"I've been overseas," Hollister answered the unspoken question. That
strange curiosity, tinctured with repulsion! "The result is obvious."
"Most unfortunate," Mr. Lewis murmured. "But your scars are honorable.
A brother of mine lost an arm at Loos."
"The brothers of a good many people lost more than their arms at
Loos," Hollister returned dryly. "But that is not why I called. You
recollect, I suppose, that when I was out here last I bought a timber
limit in the Toba from your firm. When I went overseas I instructed
you to sell.
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