Max noiselessly retired, and presently returned with the whisky.
“Mr. Frost will be down in a moment, sir,” he said, as he placed the articles at Atherton’s elbow.
He had scarcely spoken before Jackson Frost appeared, a tall young fellow, faultlessly dressed.
“So, here you are!” he said, addressing Atherton. “A bit late, aren’t you?”
Before Atherton could reply, two other members of the club strolled into the room, a fact which brought a frown of annoyance to the man’s handsome face.
While the newcomers were giving their orders to Max, the latter stood before them in an attitude of respectful attention. All the time, however, he was straining his ears to catch what was passing between Atherton and Frost.
“Is everything arranged?” he heard the latter ask, in a low tone.
“Yes,” Atherton replied. “I came to tell you what the arrangements are, but we can’t talk here.”
“Come up to my room,” suggested Frost. “I’ll say I’m going up to dress for dinner, and you can follow me in a few minutes.[Pg 4]”
“Right,” said Atherton. “We’ll be safe from interruption there.”