“I’ll step up for a minute,” he replied.
When he returned, attired in a quiet-colored business suit and fresh linen, he called the maid and told her he was going out for a few hours. “Tell Miss Ross I’ll be back to dinner if possible, but not to wait for me.”
“Yes, sir. Excuse me, Master David, but you don’t look fit to go out. You’re that pale I hardly knew you.”
“Oh, I’m all right. A little tired, that’s all. Don’t say anything of the kind to Aunt Elizabeth, though.”
Half an hour later he entered the private offices of Walter Bascomb, Sr., where he was received with a suave cordiality that left an unpleasant impression.
“Wallie is at the club,” said Bascomb, motioning him to a seat and offering him a cigar. Taking one himself, he leaned back in his ample chair and smoked, regarding David with speculative eyes that were bright but undeniably cold.
“Well,” he said, flicking the ash from his cigar, “how are you making it up in the woods?”
“Doing nicely, thank you.”
“Wallie has been telling me of your—er—occupation, your partnership with a certain Mr. Avery of Lost Farm.”
“Yes.”