“The bank examiners—I—I can’t talk over the ‘phone. Only, for God’s sake, come—will you? I’ll be in my rooms—you know where they are, don’t you—on the cottier over—”
“Yes, I know,” Jimmie Dale broke in tersely; then, quietly: “All right, Forrester, I’ll come.”
“Thank God!” came Forrester’s voice—and disconnected abruptly.
Jimmie Dale replaced the receiver on the hook, stared at the instrument again in a perplexed way; then, called the garage on the private house wire. There was no answer. He walked quickly then across the room and pushed an electric button.
“Jason,” he said a moment later, as the old butler appeared on the threshold in answer to the summons, “Benson doesn’t answer in the garage. I presume he is downstairs. I wish you would ask him to bring the touring car around at once. And you might have a light overcoat ready for me—Jason.”
“Yes, sir,” said the old man. “Yes, Master Jim, sir, at once.” His eyes sought Jimmie Dale’s, and dropped—but into them had come, not the questioning of familiarity, but the quick, anxious questioning inspired by the affection that had grown up between them from the days when, as the old man was so fond of saying, he had dandled his Master Jim upon his knee. “Yes, sir, Master Jim, at once, sir,” Jason repeated—but he still hesitated upon the threshold.
And then Jimmie Dale shook his head whimsically—and smiled.
“No—not to-night, Jason,” he said reassuringly. “It’s quite all right, Jason—there’s no letter to-night.”
The old man’s face cleared instantly.
“Yes, sir; quite so, sir. Thank you, Master Jim,” he said. “Shall I tell Benson that he is to drive you, sir, or—”