"Are you the man?" he asked in a low tone.
"I'm the boy who wired about the messages."
"Step right this way. He's waiting."
Curlie's heart beat fast. Was he to be ushered at once into the august presence of the magnate? He had pictured to himself hours of waiting, interviews by private secretaries and all that.
And yet here he was. In a large room furnished in rich mahogany, seemingly the rich man's home office, he was being greeted by a stout, broad-shouldered, brisk and healthy-looking man who was assuring him that he was speaking to J. Anson Ardmore himself and inviting him to sit down.
With his head in a whirl, he managed to get himself into a chair. And all this while he was telling himself things; things like this: "Curlie, old boy, this is going to be strenuous. This man is powerful, magnetic, almost hypnotizing. He will find out as much as he can from you. He will tell as little as is necessary to attain his end. To him all life is a game, a game in which he conceals much and discovers all that lies in his opponent's hand. He probably knows you have the goods on his son. Perhaps he is merely playing a game about this vanishing son. He may know where he is all the time. If so, he'll want to know what you know, and what you are going to do. You must be wise—wise as a serpent."
"Well?" the magnate spoke in a brisk way. "My butler tells me you have some messages."
"Yes, sir."
"Sent by my missing son?"
"Yes, sir."