"An up-and-coming lad," said Krech. "He couldn't have done it better if he'd been expecting the job."
Creighton glanced at the speaker quickly, but the big man's face was as ingenuous as a child's. They dropped the subject as they came up with the others.
When he had bidden them au revoir, the detective went to the small study, where he found Copley Varr restlessly pacing the short fairway between the door and his father's desk. The young man welcomed him with a gesture of relief.
"Thought you were never coming," he said, though not rudely. "If I can't see my mother yet, I'm in a hurry to—to attend to some other matters."
"Is an interview with William Graham one of them?" asked Creighton quietly as they sat down. He caught the sharp look that Copley sent him. "While digging into the history of this case it was inevitable that I should discover something of your private affairs. I will ask you to believe that I do not violate confidences—even though I have to force them at times."
"That's all right. You're a detective, aren't you?"
"I try to be!" smiled Creighton.
"Well, it's no use employing a detective and then cramping his style by refusing him information. I understand that."
"Good. We'll get along beautifully. Will you tell me, please, why you are obliged to return to New York? Is the reason—Miss Graham?"
"Not any more." For the first time since he had entered the house, Copley smiled a little. "It is Mrs. Varr, now. We were married yesterday morning in New York." The smile vanished abruptly. "And my father—scarcely cold! I won't forget the shock I got from the papers this morning if I live to be a hundred."