“Martin Druce, eh? Cafe Sinister—Ah!”
His lips ceased moving as he looked about him. He was still thinking deeply; then he struck a match and lighted the cigar at the glowing flame which he contemplated for a second before extinguishing it. With a look of one who has just solved a problem, he cast aside the charred ember and gritted:
“I guess so.”
He seized a sheet of paper and rapidly scratched a few words on its white surface, settling back comfortably in the big chair as Harry came in.
“All right, Governor,” called out the son; but he paused in astonishment when he saw that his father was alone. “Why—why, where’s Patience?”
“Miss Welcome had to go,—she said,” returned the other, calmly puffing his cigar.
“Didn’t she leave any word for me?”
“Yes, she said she’d see you again.”
“When?” asked Harry, impatiently. “Why, I don’t even know where she lives.”
“I thought of that,” replied his father, as he handed the memorandum slip to Harry, on which he had just written. “Here’s her address.”