"No. She doesn't know. She need never know. I had not meant to say a word to any one."
Grimm rose and came toward him. The hard face was gentle again. The inquisitorial voice was once more kindly.
"James," said the old man, "go to the office and get your money. Then start for Florida headquarters. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir," replied James, grasping the outstretched hand. "I'm very sorry."
"I'm sorry, too, James. Good-bye!"
As Hartmann left the room, Grimm turned to Frederik, and his eyes were full of pain.
"That is settled, thank Heaven!" he announced; but there was no jubilance in his voice. "I wish—Hello, there's old McPherson!"
Glad to divert his mind he hurried to the front door to welcome the visitor and drew him into the room with friendly roughness.
Dr. McPherson would have borne the stamp, "Family physician of the Old School," even had he been found in the ranks of the Matabele army. Big, shaggy, bearded, he was of the ancient and puissant type that, under the tidal wave of "specialism" is fast being swept towards the shores where live the last survivors of the Great Auk, the Dinosaur, and the Spread Eagle Orator tribes.
"Good-morning, Peter," hailed the doctor, a Scotch burr faintly rasping his bluff voice. "Morning, Fred. I passed young Hartmann at the gate. He looks as if he was taking a pleasure trip to his own funeral. What ails him?"