"Disappeared!" Henry replied, in a low aside, using his morning paper, the Times, as a screen for the sub rosa conversation, which then ensued. "Clean gone!" he added.
Olinski looked positively sick for a moment. "Odd, isn't it?" he remarked.
"The whole affair's odd," Henry returned, placing a finger to his lips, to indicate the need for secrecy and caution.
Pat and I were both listening attentively, but camouflaging our attention with some silly chatter and laughter, as if deprecating any idea that we wished to listen in.
"Supposing someone got rid of him—Niki, for instance," Olinski suggested, sotto voce. "Niki's an Oriental. He may have misunderstood your motives. Faithful servant, you know. Heard of cases of that sort myself, in the Orient, not in this country, though."
Henry's eyes seemed to pop, and his face blanched at the suggestion of murder. "Oh, but I think that's impossible," he asserted, unconsciously raising his voice.
"What's impossible, Uncle Henry?" asked Pat.
"Oh!" said Henry, taken wholly by surprise. "Mr. Olinski and I were—er—we were just discussing a rather peculiar happening of last night, after you'd gone to bed. Something of a mystery, which seems difficult of solution."
"Perhaps I can solve it for you," Pat suggested demurely, giving me a knowing wink.
Olinski, who was watching Pat attentively, signed to Henry to remain quiet, and said: "I'm afraid your distinguished uncle has got himself into a peck of trouble."