Francis plunged into his work and forgot all about the matter. He was reminded of it, however, at luncheon-time, when, on entering the dining-room of the club, he saw Andrew Wilmore seated alone at one of the small tables near the wall. He went over to him at once.
“Hullo, Andrew,” he greeted him, “what are you doing here by yourself?”
“Bit hipped, old fellow,” was the depressed reply. “Sit down, will you?”
Francis sat down and ordered his lunch.
“By-the-bye,” he said, “I had rather a mysterious visit this morning from your brother Reggie.”
Wilmore stared at him for a moment, half in relief, half in amazement.
“Good God, Francis, you don't say so!” he exclaimed. “How was he? What did he want? Tell me about it at once? We've been worried to death about the boy.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't see him,” Francis explained. “He arrived before I reached my rooms—as you know, I don't live there—waited some time, began to write me this note,”—drawing the sheet of paper from his pocket—“and when I got there had disappeared without leaving a message or anything.”
Wilmore adjusted his pince nez with trembling fingers. Then he read the few lines through.
“Francis,” he said, when he had finished them, “do you know that this is the first word we've heard of him for three days?”