A little later in the day, almost closing time at the bank, James Walters and Bertrand Ballard entered and asked to see the Elder. They were shown into the director’s room, and found him seated alone at the great table in the center. He pushed his papers one side and rose, greeting them with his grave courtesy, as usual.
Mr. Walters, a shy man of few words, looked silently at 151 Mr. Ballard to speak, while the Elder urged them to be seated. “A warm day for the season, and very pleasant to have it so. We’ll hope the winter may come late this year.”
“Yes, yes. We wish to inquire after your son, Elder Craigmile. Is he at home to-day?”
“Ah, yes. He was not at home––not when I left this noon.” The Elder cleared his throat and looked keenly at his friend. “Is it––ahem––a matter of business, Mr. Ballard?”
“Unfortunately, no. We have come to inquire if he––when he was last at home––or if his cousin––has been with you?”
“Not Richard, no. He came unexpectedly and has gone with as little ceremony, but my son was here on the Sabbath––ahem––He dined that day with you, Mr. Ballard?”
“He did––but––Elder, will you come with us? A matter with regard to him and his cousin should be looked into.”
“It is not necessary for me to interfere in matters regarding my son any longer. He has taken the ordering of his life in his own hands hereafter. As for Richard, he has long been his own master.”
“Elder, I beg you to come with us. We fear foul play of some sort. It is not a question now of family differences of opinion.”
The Elder’s face remained immovable, and Bertrand reluctantly added, “We fear either your son or his cousin, possibly both of them, have met with disaster––maybe murder.”