“Mister Michaels is here, sir,” he said.
“Already?” Blake appeared surprised. “He wasn’t coming in until eleven o’clock.”
“He took an earlier train, sir. I believe he wants to be back in New York by twelve—”
“Tell him to come in, Herbert. Have Otto keep the car ready. Tell him to stay in it. And by the way, Herbert” — Blake’s tone assumed a feigned indifference — “I should have told the watchman to be here before eleven tonight. There may be prowlers around. So tell Otto to be alert.”
Herbert ushered a tall man into the room, a few minutes later. The visitor was about fifty years of age. He carried himself with dignity and his eyes were quizzical as they eyed the form of Wilbur Blake.
“Mister Michaels, sir,” announced Herbert.
“Ah!” exclaimed Blake, rising to greet the newcomer. “Welcome. The others are not here yet. Sit down. Will you have a drink? Two glasses, Herbert.”
“Quite some time since I have seen you,” observed Blake as the two men faced each other from comfortable chairs. Herbert had brought the glasses and had left the room.
“Quite a while,” commented Michaels.
“Sorry to bring you all the way from Chicago,” continued Blake. “But it was necessary, in this matter.”