“Won’t be likely to come back again after that reception, eh?” said Markham.
“I should think not. He’ll be afraid of something worse.”
Markham brightened up. He acted like a different person at once. He laughed, told some funny stories, was his natural self once more, and Frank was very glad of it.
“Poor fellow,” he mused. “He’s got some harrowing secret on his mind, that’s sure, and he doesn’t want to meet certain people for some reason or other, and this Dale Wacker is one of them. Well, he’s been true blue to me, and I won’t worry him by asking about this mystery. It will come out some time, and if he’s in danger of trouble I’ll stick to him like a brother, for I know he hasn’t got a grain of real badness in his nature.”
With the morning all of Markham’s recent disquietude seemed to have entirely disappeared. When they got down to the office he kept a close watch until nine o’clock.
“Mail’s in, Frank,” he announced at last, putting on his cap.
“All right,” nodded Frank, keeping on with his writing.
“Fatal hour approaches. We shall soon know our doom,” continued Markham in a mock-alarm way.
He picked up a new canvas mail satchel marked “F. M. O. H.,” and started for the door.