"In here, sir!" he said, pattering off quickly to Dalton's study.
He pattered out again as quickly, and Hobart Hitchin, having taken a chair, rose from it at once and took to walking, brief-case still clutched in his hand and an exalted smile on his lips. So Theodore Dalton found him when he entered, fifteen seconds later—a mighty man, deep of chest, savage of eye, square of chin, with great hairy hands and a shaggy gray head. Not more than a single second did Dalton look at Hitchin before he barked:
"Well? Well? You are bringing word of her?"
"Her?" smiled Hobart Hitchin, with unearthly calm.
"My daughter!" Theodore Dalton thundered. "What——"
"I know nothing about your daughter, Dalton," Hitchin said, with his icy smile. "Will you be seated?"
"No!" said the master of the house. "What the devil do you want here, if it isn't about my daughter?"
"I want just five minutes conversation with you, on a matter which concerns you most vitally."
Theodore Dalton closed his hairy fists.
"Look here, sir," he said, with a calm of his own which was decidedly impressive. "If you're jackass enough to come in here on the morning when my daughter—my daughter—has disappeared—if you're clown enough to try to sell me anything——"