“Well, upon my word, Johnston, this is rather an original sort of performance, isn’t it?” exclaimed Carruthers, indignant over the intrusion.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I did knock,” he apologized. “I knocked twice, in fact, but no one seemed to hear; and as I had been told it was a matter of more than life and death, I presumed. Letter for Lieutenant Deland, sir. A gentleman of the name of Narkom—in a motor, sir—at the door—asked me to deliver it at once and under any and all circumstances.”
Cleek looked at the letter, saw that it was enclosed in a plain unaddressed envelope, asked to be excused, and stepped out into the passage with it.
That Narkom should have come for him like this—should have risked the upsetting of a case by appearing before he knew if it was settled or, indeed, likely to be—could mean but one thing: that his errand was one of overwhelming importance, of more moment than anything else in the world.
He tore off the envelope with hands that shook, and spread open the sheet of paper it contained.
There was but one single line upon it; but that line, penned in that hand, would have called him from the world’s end.
“Come to me at once. Ailsa,” he read—and was on his way downstairs like a shot.
In the lower hall the butler stood, holding his hat and coat ready for him to jump into them at once.
“My—er—young servant—quick as you can!” said Cleek, grabbing the hat and hurrying into the coat.
“Already outside, sir—in the motor with the gentleman,” the butler gave back; then opened the door and stepped aside, holding it back for him and bowing deferentially; and the light of the hall, streaking out into the night, showed a flight of shallow steps, the blue limousine at the foot of them—with Lennard in the driver’s seat and Dollops beside him—and standing on the lowest step of all Mr. Narkom holding open the car’s door and looking curiously pale and solemn.