Angus looked from the paper at his message to Alexander Hendrie, and his pursed lips emitted a low whistle.
"It looks like——"
He was muttering to himself of the impossibility of the millionaire's return, when the door communicating with the house was unceremoniously flung open, and Phyllis hurried in.
"Mr. Moraine," she cried, a little breathlessly, holding out a telegraph slip. "I want you to get this off at once. I don't want to send it by any of the house servants. It's to Mr. Hendrie. He—he—must come back at once."
Angus scowled. He eyed the paper and finally took it from her hand in no very friendly manner. If there was one thing he hated on earth it was for women to mix themselves up with affairs.
He began to read the message, but Phyllis gave him no time to finish it. She was as near despair as ever she had been in all her young life.
"He must get right back," she declared passionately. "It's—it's—Mrs. Hendrie. I've just left Doctor Fraser." Suddenly tears leaped into her distressed eyes. "He says—if—if we are to save her she'll need to be—be operated on right away. Oh, it's awful! You—you must just get him back, and he must bring a—specialist with him. Ah—what?"
Angus pointed at the newspaper. Its headlines were staring up from the desk in all their painful crudity.
"See that?" he demanded, in his sharp way. Then he picked the paper up, and held it out to her. "Read it. There." He pointed at the paragraph relating to the transport of passengers. "I don't just see how he's to get back here with a doctor or anything else. He's wanted right here for other things, too, but——"
"Other things?"