Down the drive Henry Carleton was walking briskly toward them, with a step that a youth of twenty might have envied. As he entered the carriage house, he eyed the pair a trifle keenly, it seemed, yet when he spoke his tone was amiability itself. “Ah, Jack,” he said, “I wondered where you’d gone. Talking over old times with Satterlee, I suppose. We dine at seven, you know.”
Carelessly Jack Carleton answered him. “Yes, I know. I’ll be ready. Lots of time yet.”
There was nothing in the words at which offense could be taken, yet at the tone Henry Carleton’s eyebrows were raised a trifle. “Suit yourself,” he said, “as long as you’re not late,” then turning to the chauffeur. “It’s unfortunate about the motor, isn’t it, Satterlee? I understand you to say that you can’t possibly have it fixed before to-morrow night?”
Satterlee shook his head. “Oh, no, sir, not possibly,” he answered. “I shall have to go in town to-morrow morning, and see them at the factory. And then there’s a good half day, just on labor alone. No, sir, to-morrow night would be the very earliest possible.”
Henry Carleton’s face clouded a trifle, and for a moment he thought in silence. Then he spoke, with a little reluctance evident in his manner. “I don’t like to ask you to do it, Satterlee, but I can’t see any other way. I’ve promised to send a message over to Mr. Sheldon to-night, a message which is of great importance to both of us. I was going to ask you to take the motor, and go over after dinner—it wouldn’t have taken much over an hour, I suppose—but that’s out of the question now. Do you think, Satterlee, you could oblige me by taking one of the horses, and driving over. It will be something of a trip, I’m afraid.”
Satterlee’s assent could hardly have been readier, or more heartily given. “Of course I’ll go, sir,” he answered, “and be more than glad to. It’s not too long a drive, sir. The night’s fine. Let me see. Twelve miles over. Twelve miles back. I could take old Robin, sir, and make it in a matter of three hours, or I could take Fleetwood, in the sulky, and make it in pretty near an hour quicker, if there’s haste.”
Henry Carleton shook his head. “Oh, no, there’s no special hurry,” he answered, “and I wouldn’t take Fleetwood, I think. I want to save him for Mr. Jack to drive to-morrow. No, I think I’d take old Robin. And I suppose you could get started by eight. If you’ll stop at the house, then, Satterlee, I’ll have everything ready, and I’m sure I’m much obliged to you. I won’t forget it.”
Satterlee’s face showed his pleasure. There was a thoughtfulness and consideration in his master’s manner unusual and agreeable. “You’re more than welcome, I’m sure, sir,” he said. “I’ll be ready sharp at eight.”
Jack Carleton had stood silent, with knitted brows. Now he looked up quickly, gazing at Henry Carleton with a singular intentness, considering the comparative unimportance of the matter involved.
“What’s the matter with telephoning?” he asked abruptly, well-nigh rudely, in fact.