“Well, all right,” he said resignedly. “Don’t bring him here or allow him to call. I’ve too much to think about to worry over Harry Nichols. You better go to your room and think things over.”
Loris glanced at her wrist-watch. She leaned with quick motion and kissed her father on the forehead. She turned at the portières and threw back her head.
“Good-by, Mr. Drew,” she said prettily. “I hope that you have not been annoyed.”
The detective, naturally quick at answering, found his tongue tied in his mouth. He stammered a reply, which was too late. Loris swished through the curtains, leaving the room empty for her passing.
“A mighty fine girl,” was Drew’s whispered comment. “They don’t often come like that. She’s very high class. She’s got spirit. I’d hate to snatch a delusion from that young lady—Harry Nichols, for instance.”
“Come here!” broke in Stockbridge.
Drew crossed the rugs. He stood by the magnate’s side. He watched him pour out a half-glass of Bourbon and take the whisky neat. He frowned. “Well?” he asked.
“Not a word from your men or the telephone company?” asked Stockbridge, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s queer, isn’t it?”
Drew took out his watch. He replaced it after a glance at the dial. His eyes wandered to a little Sèvres clock on a book-case. “It’s time for both,” he said. “It’s––”
“There’s somebody now—go see,” Stockbridge whispered tersely. “Somebody is in the hallway.”