The next moment he was herding Mr. Lee downstairs like a faithful sheep-dog.
Mr. Lee paused two steps from the bottom, and stood looking down at the newcomer. He was a tall man, and the two steps gave him extra height, so that in his close evening clothes he appeared almost gigantic.
“You wished to see me, sir?” he said politely.
“You have a son in South America, Mr. Lee?”
The old man bowed.
“A man about my age and height?”
“Not quite so tall, I think, sir.”
Vickers was silent. He had hoped the suggestion would be sufficient. He looked at the old man steadily. There was no recognition in the eyes. Vickers felt half tempted to throw over the whole game. It was indeed a mad one. He contemplated reporting the death of Lee, and going away. Then something in the face of Plimpton, peering over his master’s shoulder, encouraged him. Plimpton had guessed. Plimpton would believe him. He hazarded a bold stroke.
“Don’t you know me, father?”
The old man caught hold of him with a cry.