"Sorry I was so brusque to-night," said Telford. "I was worried— worried about something that occurred in Baltimore. An old friend of mine told me— told me that he was very ill. Incurably ill. It was a great blow to me, you understand."
He was walking toward the door of the room where Slade had been. The shrewd crook followed the old man, and stopped by the door as Telford entered. The old man reached the desk, and swung around to see his pretended son at the door.
"Were you going to the city, Jim?" he asked.
"Yes, dad," replied Slade.
"Why don't you go now, then?" inquired Telford. "I can meet you at Rajah Brahman's meeting, to-night. I have work to do here, for a while."
"A good idea, dad," said Slade. "I'll see you then."
He hesitated momentarily as he saw Thomas Telford reach for the carafe. The old man filled the glass, and raised it to his lips. He walked over toward the door, and patted Slade on the back.
"See you later, Jim," he said, in an odd tone.
Slade turned and left the room. He threw a parting glance, and saw Telford, one hand on the door, the other holding the glass to his mouth. The old man was drinking the water.
Going upstairs, Slade began to scheme. He was figuring an alibi. He did not believe that any one had seen him here at the bungalow. The old man had dismissed the cab driver before Slade had come forward to help him with the bag.