He tore the yellow envelop, and read the message. In a moment Pearson knew it was not an ordinary message, and therefore remained more than ordinarily impassive of expression. He did not even ask of himself what it might convey.
Mr. Temple Barholm stood still a few seconds, with the look of a man who must think and think rapidly.
“What is the next train to London, Pearson?” he asked.
“There is one at twelve thirty-six, sir,” he answered. “It’s the last till six forty-five in the morning. You have to change at Crowley.”
“You’re always ready, Pearson,” returned Mr. Temple Barholm. “I want to get that train.”
Pearson was always ready. Before the last word was quite spoken he had turned and opened the bedroom door.
“I’ll order the dog-cart; that’s quickest, sir,” he said. He was out of the room and in again almost immediately. Then he was at the wardrobe and taking out what Mr. Temple Barholm called his “grip,” but what Pearson knew as a Gladstone bag. It was always kept ready packed for unexpected emergencies of travel.
Mr. Temple Barholm sat at the table and drew pen and paper toward him. He looked excited; he looked more troubled than Pearson had seen him look before.