Rayne smiled inwardly. He had not known the name of the private secretary, but he had learned it now, and without difficulty. The game was playing into his hands.
The butler walked a little way down the hallway—it was on the second floor of the building—and was about to knock on a door.
“Never mind!” interrupted Rayne. “I’ll go in and see him. You need not knock.”
The Apache had found out where Morlein’s room was. This, also, was a piece of information that had not been in his possession before. He did not know the way of the palace. In fact, this was the first time he ever had been within its walls.
Again getting a firm grip on his nerves, Rayne opened the door of the secretary’s room and walked in with the authoritative manner of a chief visiting a subordinate.
Henry Morlein was a tail, athletic young fellow, whose greeting indicated that he was on very friendly terms with his chief.
His feet were on the edge of his desk, and though he took them down when the supposed acting governor entered, he did it languidly, as if it were not an unusual thing for him to be caught in this careless attitude.
“Hello, chief!” he drawled, as he removed a cigar from his mouth. “I thought you’d gone to the theater. They’re doing opera, I’m told—and rather well, at that.”
“I was going, but I changed my mind.”
Rayne said this carelessly, but he trembled lest his imitation of Jabez Portersham’s tones should fail to deceive this wide-awake young man.