“And then?”
Harry’s manner was alert, defensive, but wholly questioning.
“Then we’ll talk this over calmly.”
“All right, but Governor—” the young man turned at the door, grasping the contract in one hand as he put out the other warningly and pointed with his forefinger to the scrap of paper he had laid on the desk, on which was written Patience’s supposed address: “Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t try to fool me.”
John Boland stood motionless for a moment looking after his son; then he clenched his hand and brought it down on the desk with a forcible thump, as he thought:
“I’ve got to do something—quick.”
“Well, made up your mind to see me, did you, Mr. Boland?”
Martin Druce’s suave voice recalled Boland from the revery into which he had lapsed.
“Yes,” he replied quickly, walking to the door through which Harry had gone and closing it.
“Now, don’t talk,” he commanded as he returned to his desk. “Listen! You and Anson want a renewal of the lease for the Cafe Sinister, don’t you?”