“Weel?” asked Duncan Macgregor, who was seated in an easy attitude in Sam Statham’s library. At the table sat the millionaire himself, while near by, in the enjoyment of a cigar, sat old Levi. The latter was still in his garb of service, but his attitude was certainly more like that of his master’s intimate friend than that of butler.
It was from his thin lips that the query had escaped in response to a fact which the Scot had emphasised with his hairy fist.
“Well,” exclaimed Statham after a pause, “and what do you suppose should be done, Mr—”
“Macgregor—still Duncan Macgregor,” exclaimed the bearded man, concluding the millionaire’s sentence. “That’s the verra thing that puzzles me, mon. P’raps we’d best wait a wee bittie an’ see.”
Levi dissented. He knew that whatever his position in that strange household, his master always listened to him and took his advice—sometimes when it involved the risk of many thousands. He was a kind of oracle, for generally when Ben came there to consult his brother upon some important point, the old servant remained in the room to hear the discussion and to give his dry but candid opinion.
“My own opinion is that we should act at once—without fear. The slightest hesitation now will be our undoing, depend upon it,” he said.
“Ah! Mr Levi,” exclaimed the Scot, “I’m a’ways for caution. Hasna’ our ain Bobbie said that facts are chiels that winna ding, and downa be disputed?”
“Yes; but we’ve not yet quite established the facts yet, you see,” Statham said.
“Why, mon, isn’t it as plain as plain can be? What mair d’ye want?”
“A good deal,” Levi chimed in in his squeaky voice. “We can’t act on that. It’s too shadowy altogether.”