He read the article carefully, which told all about Ventin's murder, and the suspicions entertained by Monteith, after which he laid the paper down, and rising from his seat, walked slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back.
"Don't think the cub can be so bad after all," he said, musingly. "Indeed, judging from his evidence, he seems rather a clever fellow. Queer case, and one I'd like to have a hand in: to unravel a mystery like that would make a fellow's fortune; but these things don't come my way, confound it!"
Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and his clerk, a red-headed boy, with a large appetite and fearful dislike for work entered, with a card held in his grimy fingers.
"Gen'lum waitin' sir," said the red-headed youth, who breathed hard in an apoplectic manner. "Ronald Monteith," read Foster on the card; "hum! the cub--show him in Berkles."
Berkles grinned, vanished, and shortly afterwards threw open the door, and announced "Mr. Ronald Monteith."
If ever Gerald Foster got a shock in his life it was seeing the cub of his fancy transformed into the handsome young man of reality. There he stood at the door, hat in hand, tall and noble-looking, quite a distinct being from the ordinary lounger of Regent Street and Hyde Park. Accustomed to rapid observation, Foster took the whole of that stalwart figure and honest countenance in at a glance, and with the sudden liking of instinct advanced towards him with outstretched hand.
"Mr. Monteith I believe?" he said, as Ronald stepped into the room.
"Yes," answered Ronald, grasping the proffered hand--and what an honest firm grip was that of the young Australian; "I sent my letter of introduction to you last night."
"It is here," replied Foster, pointing to the table, as Ronald took his seat.
"I am very glad to see you Mr. Monteith; my father was a great friend of your father's--let us hope the friendship will be hereditary."