Angus flushed. There was no resentment in him at the other's tone. His flush was inspired by some feeling of satisfaction.
He pointed at the blotting-sheet.
"Guess that Frank has another name. Leastways I should say it is 'Frank Smith,' who registers in that name at the Russell Hotel in Everton—mostly when you're away."
The millionaire's eyes were intent upon the blotting-sheet. He offered no comment.
"The townsfolk have seen him riding with Mrs. Hendrie—quite a lot—when you're away. He's a big feller. Bigger than you. He's got thick fair hair, and is a good-looker."
For a second, Hendrie's eyes lifted.
"Young?"
"Anything up to twenty-five."
Hendrie was no longer contemplating the incriminating paper. He was gazing at it, and beyond it, searching the cells of memory.
"Go on," he said. His cigar had gone out.