“Maxwell, did you say?—All right, Mr. Maxwell; I am glad to see you. Excuse my hand; it is full of ink.”
Mr. Henderson had a soft, gentle voice, and his hand, although it was splashed with ink, was as delicate as that of a woman.
“Is this the Mr. Henderson you were telling me about some time ago?” asked Joe, turning to Mr. Deometari. “I mean the Mr. Henderson who was sick when you retreated from Laurel Hill?”
“The same,” said Mr. Deometari.
Mr. Henderson laughed softly to hide his surprise, pushed his chair back, and rose from his seat. Whatever he was going to say was left unsaid. At that moment a knock that echoed down the hallway came on the outer door, and it was followed almost immediately by the firm and measured tread of some newcomer. Then there appeared in the doorway the serene face of Mr. Archie Blandford. He glanced around the room half-smiling until his eyes fell on Joe, and then the shadowy smile gave place to an unmistakable frown. Joe saw it, and for the first time felt that his position was a peculiar one, to say the least. He began to feel very uncomfortable, and this feeling was not relieved by the curt nod of recognition that Mr. Blandford gave him. He was a sensitive lad, and it was not pleasant to realize that he was regarded as an intruder. He looked at Mr. Deometari, but that gentleman seemed to be absorbed in a study of the portraits on the wall. Mr. Blandford advanced a few steps into the room, hesitated, and then said, abruptly:
“Deo! let me see you a moment.”
The two men went into the hall and as far as the outer door, and, although they talked in subdued tones, the passage took the place of a speaking-tube, and every word they uttered could be heard by Joe Maxwell and Mr. Henderson.
“Deo,” said Mr. Blandford, “what under the sun is Maxwell doing here? He ought to be at home in bed.”
“He is here,” Mr. Deometari explained, “at my invitation.”
“But your reason must tell you, Deo, that that child ought not to be mixed up in this night’s business. It is almost certain to be serious.”