“Oh, good morning, Sylvester,” McIntyre's manner was brusque. “When do you expect Mr. Kent?”
“In about twenty minutes, Colonel.” Sylvester glanced at the wall clock. “Won't you sit down?”
McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window. Never a very patient man, he waited for Kent with increasing irritation, and at the end of half an hour his temper was uppermost. “Give me something to write with,” he demanded of Sylvester. Accepting the clerk's fountain pen without thanks, he walked over to the center table and, drawing out his leather wallet, took from it a visiting card and, stooping over, wrote:
You have but thirty-six hours remaining.
McIntyre.
“See that Mr. Kent gets this card,” he directed. “No, don't put it there,” irascibly, as the clerk laid the card on top of a pile of letters. “Take it into Mr. Kent's office and put it on his desk.”
There was that about Colonel McIntyre which inspired complete obedience to his wishes, and Sylvester followed his directions without further question.
As the clerk stepped into Kent's office McIntyre saw a woman sitting by the empty desk. She turned her head on hearing footsteps and their glances met. A faint exclamation broke from her.
“Margaret!” McIntyre strode past Sylvester. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Brewster's ready laugh hid all sign of embarrassment. “Must you know?” she asked archly. “That is hardly fair to Barbara.”
“So Barbara sent you here with a message!” Mrs. Brewster treated his remark as a statement and not a question, and briskly changed the subject.