"What is it?" she asked. "I saw Mr. Pixley pass, and his face frightened me. Oh, what is wrong?"
Pixley glanced at her out of his woeful eyes, and at Margaret, who had just come running down the stairs. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he groaned—
"You will have to know," and motioned them all into the dining-room and shut the door.
"This "—jerking out the telegram—"was waiting for me," and he handed it to Graeme, who smoothed it out and read, while Pixley dropped into a chair.
"Pixley. Bel-Air. Sark.
"Zizel, Amadou, Zebu, Zeta. Eno."
"Code," said Pixley briefly. "Meanings underneath," and dropped his head into his hands.
"Zizel," read Graeme slowly—"There is bad news. Amadou—your father. Zebu—has bolted. Zeta—we fear the smash will be a bad one. Eno—?"
"My partner's initials—they certify the wire," said Pixley hoarsely.
And they looked soberly at one another and very pitifully at the broken man before them.