“Down, please.”
He closed his check book with a snap, and involuntarily fumbled about his well arranged desk, replacing a paper here and a contract there.
“Hum!” he mused, “I thought there was something wrong with Harry.”
The desk telephone rang sharply. He picked up the instrument and placed the receiver to his ear.
“Hello! hello!” he jerked out irritably. “Yes—yes, this is John Boland. Who wants me?”
His acute features contracted as he listened to the reply.
“Oh, Martin Druce,” he said. “Want to see me about the lease of the Cafe Sinister, eh?”
His mind worked rapidly while he again listened.
“All right,” he blustered finally, “all right, see you in fifteen minutes. Yes,—yes, here!”
He hung up the receiver and took a cigar from his pocket, thoughtfully biting off the end, as he muttered half aloud: