The old man was amazed and moved. “Mr. Hugh,” he stammered, letting his inseparable hat fall into a chair. “God bless me—it is Mr. Hugh.”
“Accurate as ever, Grant, eh?” Hugh chaffed him, smiling with boyish friendliness.
Morton Grant went to him eagerly, almost as if about to verify his own eyesight by touch.
“You are all right, sir? You are well?”
“Never better.”
“I am glad, sir. I’m very glad indeed,” the old man said brokenly.
Stephen Pryde had had enough of this. “Yes, yes, yes,” he interrupted testily; “but why are you here, Grant? You said it was about Hugh.”
“It is, sir,” the clerk answered quickly, recalled to his errand; “the—the authorities came to the office to-day, searching for him.”
“Well, that’s cheerful,” Hugh commented.
Helen gave a little sob.