“I’m sent to tell only him, sir, no one else,” was the reply. “Here is my card, sir—Michael Rohan, sir. If he is at home, would you say this much to him: It’s about what happened a few nights back. That’s all I can say, sir.”
Captain Dillon’s brows knit closer, but his searching scrutiny had proved ineffective. His visitor’s respectful air, his manifest humility, his evident aim to follow instructions that had been given him—these so plainly denoted that he was acting for others and had no aggressive intentions, that Captain Dillon was completely deceived.
“You may come in, my man,” he said curtly, stepping back to admit him and then closing the door. “Come into the library. I will hear what you have to say.”
Rohan followed him, removing his cap and gingerly taking a chair to which the ex-army officer pointed, one near a cloth-topped library table in the middle of the room. He laid his cap on it, and appeared to feel out of his element amid such superior surroundings.
Captain Dillon noticed it, and his frown relaxed. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, gazing across it and saying:
“Your name is Rohan, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Michael Rohan, sir,” said he huskily.
“Who sent you here?”
“I’m to see Captain Dillon, sir; no one else. If——”
“I am Captain Dillon.”