“We have taken a little more than our ten minutes,” said his lordship, beaming on his guest with that inane smile of his, as they stepped together into the tonneau of a very large red automobile, which was soon humming eastward.
Into the private room of the stockbroker, Mac-keller ushered Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, and there they found at his desk a rugged-faced, white-haired, haggard-looking man, who glanced up at them with lowering brows.
“I’ve got five thousand pounds,” said the son at once.
“Then run with it to the bank.”
“I will, as soon as I have introduced to you Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood. Your lordship will excuse me, I am sure.”
“Oh, yes. I stipulated for your absence, you remember, because I do not in the least rely upon your plan,” but the young man had departed before his lordship’s sentence was finished.
The elder Mackeller looked intently at the newcomer. Being offered a chair, his lordship sat down.
“Is it from you that my son got the money?”
“Yes.”
“If you did not believe in his plan, why did you give him the cash?”