“I beg,” Jacob said with dignity, “that you will not compare your calf love for a picture-postcard young lady with what might easily have been a great passion.”
Felixstowe tapped a cigarette upon the rail and lit it.
“It took me more than three days to get over it, at any rate,” he remarked pointedly.
A grave-looking, clean-shaven young man, very neatly dressed and wearing thin, gold-rimmed spectacles, met them as they stepped off the steamer.
“Mr. Jacob Pratt, I am sure?” he said. “My name is Morse—Sydney H. Morse. I am your brother’s secretary.”
“How is Sam?” Jacob enquired eagerly.
“He is in precisely the same condition of coma,” the secretary replied. “The physician says that he may remain so for days.”
“Shall I be able to see him?”
“Doctor Bardolf will discuss that with you, Mr. Pratt. In the meantime, one of your brother’s servants is here to see after all the luggage and pass it through the Customs, if you will hand him the list. I have a car here for you and—and—”