Landon's face took on the eager expression of a wolf to whom a distant taint is brought by the evening wind.
"Eh?" he cried. "There has been a chance, then; their defences are not impregnable?"
Miller shook his head.
"They have been strengthened since," he said diffidently. "But the weak spot in them is the child himself. He has never had, if you will pardon the remark, proper control. He is frankly disobedient of the precautions with which they surround him."
Landon grinned.
"There's my blood in him," he chuckled. "And, by God, I'm fond of the little toad, too. It's not only to spite her, Miller, or for the money that's in it. I never took the trouble to whop him; I believe he'd come to me of his own accord, if he had the chance."
"It's a large if," suggested Mr. Miller, politely.
Landon made no retort. His face had assumed a meditative mask; his lips were firmly pressed together; he had the effect of one who calculates pro against con.
"That's why I think it's time I took a hand," he said suddenly. "We'll knock off three of your six, Miller. I am prepared to be a host in myself."
For the moment the other said nothing. They had swung out of the Waterport Street and turned the sharp corner which brought them to the entrance of the hotel. He listened quietly as his companion demanded the number of the room engaged for him, received his letters, and entered the lift. He accompanied him silently. It was not till they were left alone that he pulled a pocket-book out, tranquilly turned the leaves, and consulted an entry.