“Well done for Bob! Of course his only object in coming here is to keep an eye on John. I only hope and pray for my part—I mean Mr. Cereal’s peace of mind—the exposure doesn’t take place before all this company.”
“It would be needless. We must, if necessary, find some means of avoiding that.”
“Ah! you don’t know Bob. Just as soon as he gets that telegram, he’ll make direct for his man, and all Hades couldn’t stop him.”
“Very good. We must watch him, then. Just as soon as a message comes, if it does arrive, one of us—myself—must see John and inveigle him out of the room, while you fall in with the colonel and distract his attention.”
“Count on me to do my best. Both of us are interested now in avoiding a scene on account of our prospective relations with Samson Cereal. There now, don’t give up, Aleck. Ah! he comes.”
“Who—the messenger boy?”
“Pshaw! no, it’s John.”
The young man has entered the room. He makes a decidedly striking appearance, for, although not quite six feet in height, his figure is that of an athlete. Aleck takes to him on sight.
“What a shame such a young god should have descended to the rôle of a defaulter,” mutters Wycherley in the Canadian’s ear.
Aleck does not reply. He has the queerest feeling pass over him—a flush succeeded by a chill. It is hard to believe this fine, frank looking man can be a fugitive from justice, but strange things happen in this life, and we grow accustomed to many facts which at first seem impossible.