He had not dictated a message for Carter because the matter was too confidential for that; besides, he expected to present himself at the hotel before long and wait for his chief, if the latter had not yet returned.
First, though, he must dress and snatch a bite of breakfast. His dressing and shaving occupied only about twenty minutes in all—with a cold plunge thrown in—and when he reached the dining room, he found the housekeeper waiting for him. His coming seemed to be a signal, for she vanished at once into the regions behind, but soon returned bearing a tray. Patsy was a favorite of hers, and she was doing him the honor of serving him in person.
“Mr. Chick said to let you sleep,” she declared, nodding her gray head. “Heaven only knows when you came in last night. I was awake until twelve.”
Patsy grinned. “You missed me by a minute or two,” he answered, as he attacked his breakfast.
His conscience was pricking him most uncomfortably, and although he was hungry, he would have eaten little if he had had his own way. The housekeeper stood over him, however, and saw to it that he made a good meal. The breakfast consumed fifteen minutes of his precious time, and even then the elderly lady sniffed as she picked up the tray.
“You oughtn’t to bolt your food like that, Mr. Garvan,” she complained. “You’ll be a martyr to indigestion before you’re forty. Don’t you think you might bite a thing twice before it goes down?”
She had gained her main point, however, and that was something. She returned to the kitchen, and Patsy hurried out of the house.
He had ordered one of Nick’s runabouts brought round, and in it he drove to the hotel.
“Mr. Mortimer” had not yet returned.