America rises early, even in holiday-making Newport; so Mr. Francis Willard did not breakfast in solitary state. When he entered the dining-room at half-past eight next morning he cast a quick glance around the well-filled tables, and ascertained instantly that the one man whom he did not wish to see was absent.
Toward the close of the meal he beckoned the head waiter.
“Where does Mr. Power sit usually?” he inquired.
“Over there, sir, with Mr. Dacre, the English gentleman, at the small table near the second window.”
Following directions, Willard noted a good-looking man, apparently about forty years old, who was studying the menu intently. As a matter of fact, Dacre had seen the newcomer’s signal, and guessed what it portended.
“Oh, indeed! Mr. Dacre a friend of his?” went on Willard.
“They are often together, sir.”
“And where is Mr. Power this morning?”
“He left by the first train, sir.”
For some reason this news was displeasing; though Power’s departure made plausible any inquiries concerning him.