“Ah!” exclaimed Risk, “this is what was wanted! ‘The operation on the skull has been successful,’ he read, ‘and the patient is now well enough to give you a short interview.’ . . . Hayward, you must go North by the first train, learn all you can, and instruct him to hold his tongue for the present.”
“I can catch the 11.30 train,” said Colin, who was already acquiring the decisive ways of his friend and employer, “and may be there in time to see him to-night. You wish me to return at once?”
“I want you to take in Dunford on your way back and get me one or two photos. I’ll give you a note of what I require along with the camera. But that needn’t take you more than a couple of hours. Don’t you want to look up your people?”
“They’re all from home this month—thank you for thinking of it. I ought to tell you that my father and I have made it up—through the post.”
“That’s right! Now, before you go, will you do me a rough sketch of the postman’s house before it was burned—that is, a drawing of the front, showing door, windows, etc., as correctly proportioned as you can make them. Jot the colourings at the side. . . . One thing more: you might break your return journey at Newcastle, for an hour or so. My sister and Miss Carstairs will be there to-morrow. I’ll wire you where to find them to the hospital this afternoon.”
Colin felt grateful, but merely returned a “Very well, Mr. Risk,” and he hastened to his own office to get through the work on hand. The request for a sketch of Sam’s old house puzzled him, as did the photographic business, but he possessed the valuable wit for knowing when to suppress questions.
Risk immediately plunged into a small ocean of correspondence. He had an extraordinary number of financial interests, and they really interested him apart from their finance. . . .
A secretary entered.
“Mr. Boon, of the Westminster Film Co., is here, sir. He has an appointment with you.”
Risk glanced at the clock. “In two minutes,” he said, returning to the correspondence, “show him in.”