“Any word from Sycamore Ridge?” he asked, as he came into the big, cheerful office and nodded a kindly good-morning to his two assistants.
“Yes, and a good word,” returned Keefe, smiling. “It says: ‘Come.’” The secretary’s attitude toward his employer, though deferential and respectful, was marked by a touch of good-fellowship—a not unnatural outgrowth of a long term of confidential relations between them. Keefe had made himself invaluable to Samuel Appleby and both men knew it. So, as one had no desire to presume on the fact and the other no wish to ignore it, serenity reigned in the well-ordered and well-appointed offices of the ex-governor.
Even the light-haired, light-hearted and light-headed Genevieve couldn’t disturb the even tenor of the routine. If she could have, she would have been fired.
Though not a handsome man, not even to be called distinguished looking, Samuel Appleby gave an impression of power. His strong, lean face betokened obdurate determination and implacable will.
Its deep-graven lines were the result of meeting many obstacles and surmounting most of them. And at sixty-two, the hale and hearty frame and the alert, efficient manner made the man seem years younger.
“You know the conditions on which Wheeler lives in that house?” Appleby asked, as he looked over the top of the letter at Keefe.
“No, sir.”
“Well, it’s this way. But, no—I’ll not give you the story now. We’re going down there—to-day.”
“The whole tribe?” asked Keefe, briefly.
“Yes; all three of us. Be ready, Miss Lane, please, at three-thirty.”