“Yes, Sir John, it’s Friday.”
“Ah, of course, so it is.”
Since Sir John had been living at Dalmyrnie, no one had his address except the Poste Restante at Arroch Head—the nearest village fourteen miles away. No persuasion was strong enough to make him reveal his hiding place. He seemed to live in dread of his secret being snatched from him. No precaution was too great to take to prevent such a catastrophe.
“Lunch is ready, Sir John,” came a voice from behind him. It was Hector who had returned. The three men all had meals together in the little honeysuckle-covered cottage that had once been a gamekeeper’s. There was no ceremony—they were all workers together.
The leather Post Office bag was on the table, and Sir John unlocked it with the key that hung so prominently on the wall.
“What a budget,” said he testily. “Why do people bother me?” He began to sort the letters. “One from Freemantle and Goddard—their account, I suppose. That’s from Armstrong’s with their invoice for those aluminium screws. A wire for you,” tossing the little orange envelope across to Masters.
Masters picked it up gingerly. “Who ever can it be from? Oh,” as he read it. “I don’t understand it. I think it must be meant for you, sir.”
Sir John looked up. “Why?” he asked.
“It was handed in at noon yesterday at Plymouth. It was redirected on from the old London offices. It says, ‘Landed quite safely. Leaving Plymouth this morning. Arrive Paddington 5:20. Will come straight to you. Forsyth.’”
“Forsyth!” repeated Sir John. “Who on earth can it be? And if it’s for me, why did they address it to you?”