"But I may send to you?"
"By all means."
"—Er—would you mind coming down-stairs with me?" said Deaves. "The halls are so dark. And this letter has made me wretchedly nervous."
Evan went with him, concealing his smile.
In the lower hall Deaves said: "Of course I shall not venture out on foot after this. I shall always use the car." A new and dreadful thought struck him. "But then in a car one offers such a conspicuous mark to a bullet!"
"You needn't fear bullets," said Evan. "A dead man can't pay blackmail."
Deaves seemed to take little comfort from this. "What do you think about my chauffeur?" he asked anxiously. "Take a look at him. Does he look honest?"
Evan glanced through the narrow pane beside the door. "There's nothing remarkable about him," he said. "He looks like—like a chauffeur. How can one tell from a man's looks what he's thinking about?"
"Suppose they were to bribe him, and he drove me off to their lair?" stuttered Deaves. "I—I think I'd better stay home altogether hereafter."
But he was back again at nine o'clock that night in a still greater state of agitation. "Father has not come home!" he cried. "Where is he?"