Mr. Lindsley looked around. "Where's Falkner?"
he said. No one knew. And when Dick could not be found, Mr. Lindsley
called the company to order.
The editor of the Whistler was chosen to preside, with Mr. Conklin the
express agent, for secretary. Then a committee on constitution and
by-laws was appointed, and the company adjourned to meet in the
Commercial Club rooms the next Wednesday night.
But where was Dick? Unnoticed by the audience while their attention
was diverted toward Mr. Lindsley, he had slipped from the rear of the
stage and had made his way by the back stairs to the street. A half
hour later, some of the people, on their way home from the meeting,
noticed a tall figure, dressed in a business suit of brown, standing
in the shadow of the catalpa trees on the avenue, looking upward at
a church spire, built in the form of a giant hand, and at the darkened
stained-glass window, in which was wrought the figure of the Christ
holding a lamb in his arms. Later, they might have seen the same figure
walking slowly past a beautiful residence a few blocks farther up the
street, and when opposite a corner window, pausing a moment to stand
with bared head, while the lips moved softly as though whispering a
benediction upon one whose memory filled the place with pleasure and
with pain.
About one o'clock on the following Wednesday, Uncle Bobbie Wicks dropped
into the printing office. Udell had not returned from dinner. "Good
afternoon, Mr.
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