“It was a perfectly straightforward business letter ... something about steel shipments ... I don’t remember any more ...”
“A straightforward business letter,” commented the boy. “Like the letter I read, eh?...”
“Tell me, Bruce,” said Robin, after a moment’s silence, “during the time you were with Hartley Parrish, I suppose these blue letters came pretty often?”
Young Wright wrinkled his brow in thought.
“It’s rather difficult to say. You see, there were three of us besides old Jeekes, and, of course, these letters might have come without my knowledge anything about it. But during the seven months I worked with H.P. I suppose about half a dozen of these letters passed through my hands. They used to worry H.P., you know, Robin ...”
“Worry him?” exclaimed Robin sharply; “how do you mean?”
“Well,” said Bruce, “Parrish was a very easygoing fellow, you know. He worked every one—himself included—like the devil, of course. But he was hardly ever nervy or grumpy. And so I was a bit surprised to find—after I had been with him for a time—that every now and then he sort of shrivelled up. He used to look ... well, careworn and ... and haggard. And at these times he was pretty short with all of us. It was such an extraordinary change from his usual cheery, optimistic self that sometimes I suspected him of dope or some horror like that ...”
Robin shook his head. He had a sudden vision of Hartley Parrish, one of his long, black Partagas thrust at an aggressive angle from a corner of his mouth, virile, battling, strong.
“Oh, no,” he said, “not dope ...”
“No, no, I know,” the boy went on quickly. “It wasn’t dope. It was fear ...”