"Thank you, Mr. Crosby," he answered, shaking my hand slowly, "I know that."
CHAPTER XII
AN AMATEUR MAN-HUNT WHEREIN MY OWN POSITION IS SOMEWHAT ANXIOUS
Sheila herself opened the door for me.
"You're Mr. Crosby, I suppose," she said, with that elusive reminiscence of a brogue that may not be put into words. "Sure, I'm obliged to you. An awful weight I must have been."
"You were no feather," I grinned. "Where is Miss Tabor?"
"She's in the library, sir, with a young gentleman. There's a letter here for you, sir." She pointed to a mail-strewn table near the door. Sure enough there was one—from Bob Ainslie, I judged, by the scrawled address.
A young gentleman in the library—who on earth could he be, and what did the fellow want?
"I've been three days finding you, you see," he was saying, "but I guess there's no doubt I've got you right. Now, I don't want to make any trouble—"