“Ah? I’m sorry I missed him. I thought he’d gone, from his not coming in yesterday.”
“No; he leaves tomorrow morning for Mogador.” Mr. Blandhorn paused, still absently staring at the back of Ayoub’s neck; then he added: “I have asked him to take you with him.”
“To take me—Harry Spink? In his automobile?” Willard gasped. His heart began to beat excitedly.
“Yes. You’ll enjoy the ride. It’s a long time since you’ve been away, and you’re looking a little pulled down.”
“You’re very kind, sir: so is Harry.” He paused. “But I’d rather not.”
Mr. Blandhorn, turning slightly, examined him between half-dropped lids.
“I have business for you—with the Consul,” he said with a certain sternness. “I don’t suppose you will object—”
“Oh, of course not.” There was another pause. “Could you tell me—give me an idea—of what the business is, sir?”
It was Mr. Blandhorn’s turn to appear perturbed. He coughed, passed his hand once or twice over his beard, and again fixed his gaze on Ayoub’s inscrutable nape.
“I wish to send a letter to the Consul.”