At half-past ten Mr. Eggleston began to be nervous. Every now and then he would walk out into the main office, interview one of the clerks as to his knowledge of Phil’s whereabouts and return again to his private office, where he occupied himself drumming on the desk with the end of his gold pencil, and watching the clock. The junior had no such misgivings—none of any kind. He had a game of polo that afternoon at three, and was chiefly concerned lest the day’s work might intervene. The signing of similar papers had once kept him at the office until five.
At eleven o’clock a messenger with a bank-book fastened to his waist by a steel chain, brought a message. “The treasurer of the Seaboard, with the company’s attorney, would be at Mr. Eggleston’s office,” the message read, “in half an hour, to sign the papers. Would he be sure to have Mr. Philip Colton present.” (The special’s social and financial position earned him this courtesy; most of the other magnates had to go to the trust company to culminate such transactions.)
The character of the message and Philip’s continued delay only increased Mr. Eggleston’s uneasiness. The stock clerk was called in, as well as one of the book-keepers. “What word, if any, had Mr. Colton given the night before?” he asked impatiently. “What hour did he leave the office? Did any one know of any business which could have detained him? had any telegram been received and mislaid?”—the sum of the replies being that neither word, letter nor telegram had been received, to which was added the proffered information that judging from Mr. Colton’s instructions the night before that gentleman must certainly be ill or he would have “showed up” before this.
A few minutes before half-past eleven the treasurer and his attorney were shown into the firm’s office, the former a man of sixty, with a cold, smooth-shaven face, ferret eyes and thin, straight lips, thin as the edges of a tight-shut clam, and as bloodless. He was dressed in black and wore a white necktie which gave him a certain ministerial air. His companion, the attorney, was younger and warmer looking, and a trifle stouter, with bushy gray locks under his hat brim, and bushy gray side-whiskers under two red ears that lay flat against his head. He was anything but ministerial, either in deportment or language. What he didn’t know about corporation law wouldn’t have been of the slightest value to anybody—not even to a would-be attorney passing an examination. Both men were short in their speech and incisively polite, with a quick step-in and step-out air about them which showed how thoroughly they had been trained in the school of Street courtesy—the wasting of a minute of each other’s valuable time being the unpardonable sin.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Eggleston,” exclaimed the treasurer, with one finger extended, into which the special hooked his own. The official did not see the junior partner; he dealt only with principals.
“Our attorney,” he continued, nodding to his companion, “has got the papers. Are you all ready? Where is Mr. Colton?” and he looked around.
“I’m expecting him every minute,” replied the special in a nervous tone; “but we can get along without him. My son is here to sign for the firm.”
“No, we can’t get along. I want him. I have some questions to ask him; these are President Stockton’s directions.”
Before Eggleston could reply the door of the private office was thrust open and Philip stepped in.
Mr. Eggleston sprang from his chair, and a combination smile showing urbanity, apology, and contentment, now that Phil had arrived, overspread his features.