There was no emotion in the millionaire's voice. He might have been asking a question of merely ordinary interest.
Angus nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I heard them. I wasn't mistaken, I'm dead sure. Then they parted. Mrs. Hendrie got back across the ford, on to the lower trail with the buggy. The man traipsed on to the hotel. I saw him. It was the man who registers there as 'Frank Smith.'"
"A big man, with thick, fair hair, and—a good-looker?"
Hendrie detailed the description as though registering it in his memory, and comparing it with a picture already there.
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
The millionaire reached for a match and relit his cigar.
"Only this business of going to Calford—with you away. That on top of the writing. That writing was done last night, I guess, and Mrs. Hendrie has mailed no letter since. Maybe she's taken it with her. Maybe she's going to meet him there. Maybe I'm only guessing, but I thought it time you—knew 'bout things."
Angus breathed a sigh. He had done all he intended to do, and now he—wondered.