The old fellow hesitated.
“Yes—if you’ll let me seal it up in an envelope.”
Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, and wrote the superscription.
A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the snappish way habitual to him:—“Who’s this from—eh? Why am I bothered?”
“From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won’t go away.”
“Then discharge the brute,” he replied, and with the note in his hand he finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.
At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the scribbled words.
His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.
For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when he recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:—“Ben, I must see this man alone—a—a private matter. I—I had no idea—I—”
“Of course, Sam,” exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. “Let me know when he’s gone.”