“Thank you.” He glanced at his desk clock. “She should clear quarantine and the Customs before noon, and Captain Larrieau should report in by one o’clock at the latest. You’ll recognize him immediately, Miss Mather. A perfectly tremendous fellow with a huge black beard a foot long. When he arrives show him in at once, please. Meanwhile I’m not in to anybody else.”
He resumed his day-dreaming, drawing long blissful drafts from a pleasant smelling pipe, his mind in a state of absolute quiescence in so far as business was concerned. He had that sort of control over himself; a control that rested him mentally and armed his nerves against the attrition that comes of the high mental pressure under which modern American business men so frequently operate.
At twelve-fifteen Miss Mather entered.
“The Meiggs Wharf office of the Merchants’ Exchange telephoned that the Moorea has been given pratique, but that Captain Larrieau is ill and the health officer is going to have him removed to the quarantine station at Angel Island,” she informed him. “Evidently his disease is not contagious, because the health officer said it would be quite safe for you to visit him. The Captain requests that you come aboard at your earliest convenience and that you bring an attorney and some flowers.”
Dan Pritchard’s eyebrows went up. “That request is suggestive of approaching dissolution, Miss Mather.”
“Scarcely, Mr. Pritchard. If that were the case would the Captain not have requested the attendance of your doctor to confirm the health officer’s diagnosis? And would he not have sent for a clergyman?”
“Not that great pagan! His approach to death would be marked by an active scientific curiosity in the matter up to the moment when his mind should cease to function. Please telephone Mr. Henderson, of Page and Henderson, our attorneys, and ascertain what hour will be convenient for him to accompany me to the Moorea.”
“I have already done so, Mr. Pritchard. Mr. Henderson is playing in a golf tournament at Ingleside and will be finished about three o’clock. He is in the club-house now and says he can meet you at Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock, provided the matter cannot go over until tomorrow morning.”
“It cannot. Old Gaston of the Beard is an impatient man, and this is an urgent call. Please telephone Mr. Henderson that I will meet him at Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock. Then telephone Crowley’s boathouse to have a launch waiting there for us at five o’clock. When you have done that, Miss Mather, you might close up shop and enjoy your Saturday afternoon freedom.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pritchard. Miss Morrison is in Mr. Casson’s office. She said she might look in on you a little later.”