“Here’s he’s cawd, sah.”
Mr. Rockervelt glanced at the card, murmuring: “John Steele, General Manager, Burdock Route. That’s strange.” Then aloud: “Show Mr. Steele in, Peter.” The magnate did not rise as John bowed to him, but waved his hand toward a chair, a silent invitation of which his visitor did not avail himself. He recognized the great man at once from the many portraits he had seen of him.
“I hope you have slept well, Mr. Rockervelt,” began the new-comer.
“Excellently.”
“And I trust you found the road-bed in good order.” Mr. Rockervelt raised his eyebrows and looked with some surprise at the polite inquirer before him.
“My own bed and the road-bed left nothing to be desired, since you are so kind as to ask.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so, sir,” cried John with enthusiasm. His host began to fear some demented person had got into his car, and he glanced over his shoulder for Peter, who was not visible.
“Why should you be delighted to hear me praise my own road?” he asked in tones that gave no hint of his uneasiness.
“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I wished a few minutes’ talk with you, and that’s not as easy come by as you may think. You are not on your own road, but on the Burdock Route, now rapidly approaching Portandit. I took the liberty last night of attaching your car to this train, sir, instead of to your own Number Three.”
Rockervelt sat up in alarm, glanced out of the windows, first on one side, then on the other. Bringing back his gaze to the man before him, hot anger added colour to the usual floridness of his countenance.