“Mystery? In what way?”
“Not for me to say. Go find out. And say––you and Anna come and dine with me tonight, will you? I just want to have you all to myself. Mind?”
“Not noticeably.”
“Good. Seven o’clock. Now get out of here and see Archer. Come back afterwards, if you want to; but do that first.”
As if from pressure of business, he projected Henry into the corridor; and then, meditatively, he returned to his desk. Young Mr. Standish had watched his employer very closely, during those last few days, and in witnessing Mr. Starkweather’s will, he had sensed, intuitively, that it contained a stick of dynamite for Henry.
Mr. Archer, who had known Henry since the Fauntleroy days, greeted him with the proper mixture of repression and cordiality. “But I’m afraid,” owned Mr. Archer, “I’m afraid you’re going to be a little disappointed.”
Henry shook his head. “Then you’ve sized me up all wrong,” he said, much subdued. “Because no matter what I get, I’m going to be satisfied that Uncle John wanted me to have it. Besides, I’ve apparently got to hump myself, or I don’t get anything at all. Aunt Mirabelle 58 gave me some idea of it––I’d thought it was probably an interest in the business, but Bob Standish says it isn’t.”
“No, it’s a building. 361 Main Street. But it’s rather more than a mere building; it is a business. It’s leased until next Monday; after that it’s yours to operate. The deed’s recorded now. It’s yours outright. Did your aunt tell you what the conditions are?”