“Very well, sir.”
The physician rubbed his hands in satisfaction. He completed the packing of his suitcase. He felt that he was entering an unusual game, and that new and interesting developments would come. He left his apartment, called a cab, and rode to Marchand’s house.
There he discovered a visitor — Rodney Paget. The suave, immaculately clad clubman was with Harvey Willis in the room where Henry Marchand had died.
The secretary was busy going over the old man’s effects — articles, chiefly, which had been brought from the safe. Paget, his long cigarette holder in his hand, was watching indolently.
“Good morning, doctor,” drawled Paget. “Just dropped in to say hello. Willis told me you were coming today. How are you?”
“Well, thank you,” snapped Lukens. He turned to the secretary. “Willis, I told you not to do this work until I arrived.”
“I was just arranging things, sir,” replied the secretary. “Mister Paget asked me if I had begun, and I told him I was waiting for you. He suggested that I put things in readiness.”
“Obey my orders after this,” retorted Lukens.
There was a pause. Then Paget spoke.
“You are staying here, doctor?” he asked.