He sighed and stirred restlessly, and, as he did so, a horseman rode past the window and pulled up at his door. Then Angus Moraine did something quite contrary to his rule. He rose swiftly from his chair, and, crossing the room hastily, flung open the door. The horseman was a special messenger he had sent into Everton.
The man was one of his foremen, a young Swede to whom he generally entrusted any confidential duty.
"Well, Jan?" he demanded, with something like cordiality, as the man flung out of the saddle.
The Swede dived one hand into the bosom of his loose cotton shirt.
"One letter, boss," he replied, producing an ordinary business envelope.
"Ah. Anything else?" There was eagerness in Angus's inquiry as he took the letter and read the address in Hendrie's handwriting.
"Guess I took a peek at the hotel register," Jan replied at once.
"Yes?" There was a further quickening of interest in the manager's tone.
"I see the name you wanted. Frank Smith. Guess he registered in at dinner time."
The narrow eyes of the Scot lit.