Clymer, aware that the atmosphere was getting strained, diplomatically intervened.
“Dine with me to-night, Kent,” he said. “Perhaps you will then have some news that will throw light on the present whereabouts of the securities. I found, on making inquiries, that they have not been offered for sale in the usual channels. Come, McIntyre, I have a directors' meeting in twenty minutes.”
McIntyre, who had been swinging his walking stick from one hand to the other in marked impatience, turned to Kent, his manner more conciliatory.
“Pleasant quarters you have,” he remarked. “Does Rochester share his room with you?”
“No, Colonel, his is across the ante-room where you waited a few minutes ago,” explained Kent as he accompanied his visitors to the door. “This is my office.”
“Ah, yes, I thought as much on seeing only one desk,” McIntyre's manner grew more cordial. “Does Rochester's furniture duplicate yours, safe and all?”
“Safe—no, he has none; that is the firm's safe.” Kent was becoming restless under so many personal questions. “Good-by, Mr. Clymer.”
“Don't forget to-night at eight,” the banker reminded him before stepping into the corridor. “We'll dine at the Club de Vingt. Come along, McIntyre.”
Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed him the neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of thanks the lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers as he required at the court house, he thrust them and the brief into his leather bag, but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood still to consider the events of the morning.
Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his appeal for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief that Jimmie Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel McIntyre had given him only until Saturday night to solve the problem! Kent's overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.