“Certainly not,” Jacob interrupted. “I am sure my brother will be glad to hear of your offer, Doctor, but I am on the spot and I can easily manage anything that is required. Let me have that statement, Mr. Morse.”
The secretary passed over a stockbroker’s statement from Messrs. Worstead and Jones, showing a balance of six hundred and eighty-two thousand four hundred and twenty dollars. Jacob drew out his cheque book. Morse watched him indifferently as he wrote.
“I’m afraid his lordship is not feeling quite himself this morning,” he observed. “Sorry he troubled to go round to the druggist’s. I could have fixed him up something myself. We had—”
The door opened softly. Felixstowe crossed the threshold, smiling amiably. He was dressed with his usual precision in a blue serge suit, a regimental tie, and wonderfully polished brown shoes. His Homburg hat, which he removed as he entered, was just a shade on one side. He looked the picture of health.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said genially, closing the door behind him. “Just in the nick of time, eh?”
“In the nick of time for what?” Jacob asked, turning around.
“To stop your signing that cheque.”
Jacob stared at the newcomer in amazement. Neither the physician nor Morse uttered a syllable. Their eyes were fixed upon the young man.
“Hearken now to the tale of the sleuthhound,” the latter continued, setting down his hat, cane and gloves upon the sideboard and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. “Fact is, I just toddled round to Number 1001 West Fifty-seventh Street this morning, and I’ve been having a chat with Doctor Bardolf.”