“I don’t know, father. Shall I run up to his room?”
“No, certainly not. Treat him as you would any other visitor, but you are not his gillie. Ring, and send Grant.”
The bell was touched: the butler entered directly.
“The young gentleman is not down yet, sir.”
“Well, I know that,” said his master sharply. “Go and tell him we are waiting dinner.”
The butler, as he turned, looked as if he would like to give notice to leave on the spot, but he said nothing, and left the room.
“It is a gross want of courtesy!” muttered The Mackhai angrily. “Am I to be kept waiting by the son of a miserable pettifogging scoundrel of a London lawyer? The beginning of the end, Ken, I suppose!” he added bitterly.
“I don’t know what you mean, father.”
“Wait. You’ll know quite soon enough, my boy. Too soon, I’m afraid, and then—”
The door was thrown open by the butler with a flourish, and he stood back holding it wide for Max to enter, looking very thin and scraggy, in a glossy new evening suit, with tight patent leather boots, handkerchief in one hand, new white gloves in the other.