The newcomer was faultlessly attired in a tuxedo, and his rather jolly expression contrasted noticeably with Jarnow’s serious face.
“Hello, Frank,” said the visitor. “Here I am; just about on the dot. Glad to see you. What’s all the excitement about?”
Jarnow closed the door, withdrawing the key as the lock clicked, and motioned his visitor to a chair beside the table. Windsor had been drinking; his unsteadiness betrayed him even more than his speech.
“You seem rather mysterious, Frank,” said Windsor, in an indulgent tone, as the tall man took the chair on the opposite side of the table. “What’s it all about?”
“It’s a serious matter, Henry,” replied Jarnow, dropping the key into his coat pocket. “I’ve just come from Brookdale.”
“Is — is — anything wrong with Blair?” questioned Windsor, assuming an air of drunken seriousness. “Is anything wrong? Couldn’t be anything wrong with good old Blair?”
“Your brother is all right,” said Jarnow, grimly. “All right, so far as health is concerned. But there is danger there, Henry. Serious danger.
“You’ve got to sober up, Henry. I have important facts to tell you. You must believe what I say.”
* * *
Henry Windsor tilted his head to one side. He was a man past forty, and his pudgy face seemed both solemn and ridiculous. He appeared to be listening seriously, but Jarnow groaned as he realized that it would be difficult to gain the man’s attention. Henry Windsor had unquestionably reached a state of almost hopeless intoxication.