"He'll not be back."
The man hesitated, then a dirty hand drew an envelope from a torn pocket. "I was to give it only to him, but I guess it'll be all right to leave it with you."
David closed the door, ripped open the envelope, glanced at the note, turned abruptly and re-entered Morton's study, and read the lines again:
"You paid no attention to the warning I sent you last Friday. This is the last time I write. I must get the money to-day, or—you know!
"L. D."
He was clutched with a vague fear. Who was L. D.? And how could money be thus demanded of Morton? His mind was racing away into wild guesses, when he observed there was no street and number on the note. In the same instant it flashed upon him that the note must be investigated, and that the address of its writer was walking away in the person of the old messenger.
He caught his hat, rushed down the stairs, and came upon the old man just outside the club-house entrance.
"I want to see the writer of that note," he said. "Give me the address."
"Do better'n that. I'll go with you. I'm the janitor there."
David was too agitated to refuse the offer. They walked in silence for several paces, then the old man jerked his head toward the club-house and knowingly winked a watery eye.
"Lucky they don't know where you're goin'," he said. "But I'm safe. Safe as a clam!" He reassured David with his beery smile.