He returned to the house without further lingering, and spent the two hours that followed in prowling ceaselessly up and down his library.
At the end of that time he sat down suddenly at the writing-table, and scrawled a hasty note. His face, as he did so, was like the face of an old man, but without the tolerance of age.
Finishing, he rang for his servant. "Take this note," he said, "and ask at the Brethaven Arms if a gentleman named Captain Grange is putting up there. If he is, send in the note, and wait for an answer. If he is not, bring it back."
The man departed, and Nick resumed his prowling. It seemed that he could not rest. Once he went to the window and opened it to listen to the long roar of the sea, but the fury of the blast was such that he could scarcely stand against it. He shut it out, and resumed his tramp.
The return of his messenger brought him to a standstill.
"Captain Grange was there, sir. Here is his answer."
Nick grabbed the note with a gesture that might have indicated either impatience or relief. He held the envelope between his teeth to slit it open, and they left a deep mark upon it.
"Dear Ratcliffe," he read. "If I can get to you through this
murderous storm, I will. Expect me at eight o'clock.—Yours,
B. Grange."
"All right," said Nick over his shoulder. "Captain Grange will dine with me."
With the words he dropped the note into the fire, and then went away to dress.