“Mr. Moreton would like to see you, sir.”
Even Cord’s calm was a little disturbed by this unexpected news.
“Mr. Moreton!” he exclaimed. “Not—not—not—not?”
“No, sir,” said Tomes, always in possession of accurate information. “His brother, I believe.”
“Show him in here,” said Cord, and added to Eddie, as Tomes left the room: “Well, here he is—the editor himself, Eddie. You can say it all to him.”
“I don’t want to see such fellows,” Verriman began.
“Stay and protect me, Eddie. He may have a bomb in his pocket.”
“You don’t really believe that he’s come to—”
“No, Eddie, I don’t. I think he’s come like young Lochinvar—to dance a little late at the wedding. To try to persuade me to accept that lazy, good-looking brother of his as a son-in-law. He’ll have quite a job over that.” Then, as the door opened, Mr. Cord’s eyes concentrated on it and his manner became a shade sharper. “Ah, Mr. Moreton, good morning. Mr. Verriman—Mr. Moreton.”
Ben was a good-looking young man, but it was his expression—at once illuminated and determined—that made him unusual. And the effect of his night and morning had been to intensify this, so that now, as he stood a moment in the doorway, he was a very attractive and compelling figure.