“Right-O!” agreed Andrews, who was inveterately amiable and, moreover, loved Tom.
“It's the most diabolical—” Tom paused.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Huntington Andrews, so obviously anxious to dispel his friend's ill temper that Tom laughed and said, cheerfully:
“Come on, me brave bucko!” And together they walked to the corner and then down the Avenue to 777.
“Huntington, you wait here; and if I am not back by nine-forty-five go to my house. At ten o'clock have my valet deliver the letter I gave him for my father. You can be of help to the governor if you will.”
And Huntington Andrews asked no questions—he was a friend.
Tom rang the bell of 777. The door opened. One of the four over-intelligent-looking footmen stepped to one side respectfully.
“Is your—” began Tom.
“Yes, Mr. Merriwether,” answered the man, with a deference such as only royalty elicits.
He then delivered Tom to footman number two, who in turn escorted him as far as number three; then number four led him to the door of the master's library. The footman knocked, opened the door and announced, with a curious solemnity: