Crofts relieved his pent-up bitterness. “What a man! He sends me a letter, very explanatory, containing three words: ‘Wait for me.’ He arrives at New Aidenn station last evening, but doesn’t deign to make use of the car I sent to meet the train; he even avoids speaking to the chauffeur, to mention that he intends to walk. He then strolls off somewhere, apparently to lie low until it pleases him to disclose himself. He’ll be lucky if he finds the house occupied when he makes his appearance.”
“But he may have got lost, of course.”
“I had men out searching. Every foot of the Vale was beaten last night.”
“Still, your men may have missed him.”
“Well, then,” Crofts declared with fine sarcasm, “suppose the gentleman did get lost and have to sleep in the nasty, damp Vale and get sniffles. Where’s he been all to-day? Climbing about up there where you were yesterday?”
“Ah, now you are asking reasonably. I can’t imagine. What is it, Mr. Maryvale?”
For Maryvale had suddenly grasped my arm. Now he released it, and ignored my question.
I could not gauge the look on the face of the “man of business”; it appeared to have volcanic possibilities, yet subterranean still. To regain the trivial and commonplace, I sounded Crofts on the matter that had irritated me ever since I had seen the unstartling words in the letter of dispute last night.
“By the way, Crofts, I may have to be sending out a message or two if I remain here long—”
“Of course you’ll remain—”