Then, ripping it open, he took in its contents in one swift, flashing glance:
“My dear Mr. Annister:
“I would be very glad to see you at my office at ten this morning—if you are able to be there.”
It was signed simply: “Hamilton Rook.”
Annister grinned fleetingly in answer.
“Well—it’s not another warning, at any rate,” he said, half aloud, turning to the consideration of his breakfast bacon. Then, at a low voice at his back, he turned:
“Did you—say your coffee needed warming, sir?”
It was the waitress.
Annister had turned the note, face downward, on the table, with a quick flirt of his thumb. How long she had been there behind him he could not tell, for he had heard no sound.
“Thanks—no,” he said shortly, his hard eyes boring into hers with an almost insolent appraisal.