Hugh pressed the hand he held. “I know, Grant,” he said cordially. “And you were quite right to tell him.”
“God bless you, Mr. Hugh.” Morton Grant felt for his handkerchief. He thought he was filling up for a cold.
“God bless you, Grant,” the young fellow said, still holding the old clerk’s hand.
Stephen Pryde intervened sharply. “Come, come, Grant, you mustn’t waste time like this.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll—I’ll go at once.” But at the door he turned and lingered a moment to say to Hugh,
“I hope—I trust that everything will be all right for you, sir.”
“That ought to convince you that I am right,” Stephen said imperatively to his brother, as the door closed behind Grant. “You must get away from here now—the quicker the better.”
“But I can’t go now, Stephen,” the younger man pled; “I simply can’t go until—not yet——”
“They are certain to come here for you,” Stephen insisted; “they are certain to do that.”
“But before they can come I will have searched.”