HENDRIE'S RETURN
Angus Moraine's little plan worked out exactly as he had anticipated. Monica did not visit the library before her somewhat rushed departure the following morning. Her preparations had been completed overnight, and there was nothing left which required a visit to the room, where the telegram had been deposited.
Her departure took place shortly after daylight, at which hour even the chance visit of a servant to the library was not likely to occur. Thus it happened that the envelope and its contents remained in their place quite unheeded, even by the girl whose duty it was to dust and set the room in order, until two o'clock in the afternoon, at which hour Alexander Hendrie returned.
The millionaire's return was the result of an impulse, inspired by finding himself with something in the nature of a "loose end." His business of the great trust had unexpectedly taken him to meet a deputation of local grain-growers at Gleber, just as he was about to leave Calford for Winnipeg. From thence a flying visit to Deep Willows was only a deviation of route whereby he might fill in spare hours which, otherwise, he would have had to spend waiting for the east-bound mail in Calford.
The idea of surprising Monica had pleased him. He knew the delight it would give her, and, for himself, every moment spent away from her was more than begrudged. Absorbed as Hendrie was in his maelstrom of affairs, it was curious how the human side of the man had developed since his first meeting with Monica. He was still the colossal money-making machine, but it was no longer his whole being as hitherto it had been. There could be no doubt that Monica was now foremost in his thoughts, and he loved with all the strength of his maturity as jealously as any school-boy.
Consequently, on his arrival at Deep Willows, his disappointment was of the keenest when he learned that Monica had, only that morning, departed suddenly for Calford. However, he was not the man to give way to such feelings for long, especially with means of alleviating them to his hand. His decision was prompt. There was only one thing to do. He would go straight on and join her in Calford, just as soon as sufficient petrol could be put on board the car. With this resolve most of his disappointment evaporated, and he passed on to the library, while a man was despatched to notify Angus of his return.
Angus was on hand. He had arranged that this should be so. He had no intention of missing his cues in the little drama his own mischief had inspired. He meant to be an actor in it, though possibly only taking a small part. For the rest he would stand in the prompter's corner, and watch the progress of his handiwork.
He responded to the millionaire's summons without any undue display of alacrity. He left him ample time in the library before presenting himself. His purpose was obvious and well calculated. When he finally entered the room, he came almost without any sound, turning the handle of the door with what seemed unnecessary caution.
Again was his object plain. His first sight of Alexander Hendrie was of a great man standing before a window examining, with painful intensity, a large sheet of white blotting-paper. This was as Angus had hoped, but there was something else that gave him even keener satisfaction.
He was studying the man's head, with its wonderful mane of fair hair. His face was turned three-quarters toward him, so that the light of the window shone down on the white surface of the paper.
He had seen Hendrie in most of his moods, he had studied him a hundred times, but never, in all his long years of association with him, had he witnessed such an expression as he now beheld.
The fair, rather sunburned complexion was deadly pale, the bushy brows were drawn harshly together, the lips, contrary to their usual custom in repose, were slightly parted. But it was the steel-gray eyes of the man that most held and, perhaps, pleased Angus. There was no light in them that suggested violent fury. They were cold, dreadfully cold and cruel, like the steely gray of a puma's. There was pain in them, too. But it was a pain that did not suggest helpless yielding. On the contrary Angus recognized the look he had once or twice seen before, when Hendrie had contemplated crushing some opponent to his schemes. There was an atmosphere about his whole expression that was utterly merciless.
Angus moved across the soft carpet without any sound. He halted in full view of the sheet of paper, bearing its impress of those three tell-tale words with the culminating blot. So engrossed was Hendrie that he did not appear to observe his manager's approach, yet he gave no start, or sign, when the latter's harsh voice broke the silence—
"You sent for me? I'd heard you'd got back."
Then a strange thing happened. Hendrie laughed without looking up.
"Why, yes," he said. "I sent for you. You can tell the man I shan't need the automobile."
Angus waited, studying the profile of the man beside him. He felt that something was coming. The stillness, the unnatural calm of the other was too pronounced.
Presently Hendrie looked up, and Angus mentally rubbed his eyes. The man was smiling—smiling pleasantly. But he did not put the paper aside.
"Sort of curious," he said, with a half humorous dryness. "You never think of the blotting-pad you're writing on. It's just there, and when you've written you just turn your paper over and blot it. You do it a hundred times, and it never seems to occur to you that you're doing—something foolish. Guess the folks who used to use sand had more sense."
Angus nodded. Something told him that his eyes were clear enough now. He gazed meaningly at the paper.
"Guess Mrs. Hendrie being away, the maids just fancy they can do as they please."
In a moment the change Angus had been awaiting came. In a flash hell seemed to be looking out of the millionaire's eyes.
"That's my wife's writing!" he cried, while one great hand gripped the manager's shoulder with crushing force.
Angus stared into the man's livid face, and, as eye sought eye, he knew that at last he was gazing into the torn soul of his employer.