Looking over the row of potted geraniums in the window, I beheld
Colonel Potts in the chair, swathed to the chin in the barber's white
cloth, a gaze of dignified admiration riveted upon his counterpart in
the mirror. Seen thus, he was not without a similarity to pictures of
the Matterhorn, his bare, rugged peak rising fearsomely above his
snow-draped bulk. Harpin appeared to be putting the last snipping
touches to the Colonel's too-long neglected side-whiskers. On the table
lay his hat and gold-headed cane, and close at hand stood his bulging
valise.
I walked hastily on. The thing was ominous. Yet, might it not merely
denote that Potts wished to enter upon his new life well barbered? The
bulging bag supported this possibility, and yet I was ill at ease.
Reaching my office, I sought to engage myself with the papers of an
approaching suit, but it was impossible to ignore the darkling cloud of
disaster which impended. I returned to the street anxiously.
On my way to the City Hotel, where I had resolved to await like a man
what calamity there might be, I again passed the barber-shop.
Harpin Cust now leaned, gracefully attentive, on the back of the empty
chair, absently swishing his little whisk broom.
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