“Perhaps. Here, read this.”
Dennison extended the note. Cunningham, his brows bent, ran through the missive.
Miss Norman: Will you do me the honour to meet me at the bridgehead at half-past nine—practically at once? My son and I are not on friendly terms. Still, I am his father, and I’d like to hear what he has been doing over here. 85 I will have a limousine, and we can ride out on the Bubbling Well Road while we talk.
Anthony Cleigh.
“Didn’t know,” said Cunningham, returning the note, “that you two were at odds. But this is a devil of a mix-up, if it’s what I think.”
“What do you think?”
“That he’s abducted her—carried her off to the yacht.”
“He’s no fool,” was the son’s defense.
“He isn’t, eh? Lord love you, sonny, your father and I are the two biggest fools on all God’s earth!”
The door closed sharply in Dennison’s face and the key rasped in the lock.