“Yes, by the mail from Charing Cross,” he replied. “But don’t come and see me off. I hate people to do that. And when you see dear old Max, tell him that I’m sorry I had no time to go round before leaving. I’ve just telephoned, and his man says he won’t be back till seven. That will be too late for me.”
“Very well,” replied his sister. “But—”
“But what?”
“Well, Charlie, I’m sorry you’re going. I feel—well, I feel that you are going to a place where an accident might happen to you. I know nothing about Servia, and besides—”
“Well?”
“The mystery about old Sam Statham always haunts me. I don’t somehow like that man.”
“You only met him once, and he was very courteous to you. Besides, he is my master. Were it not for him I should most probably be going about London penniless.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “Have you been to his house in Park Lane lately?”
“I was there this morning, but only for five minutes. He gave me some instructions about a call I had to make in the city.”
“I wish you could leave him and get some other work as secretary. I don’t like him. He isn’t what he pretends to be, I’m sure he isn’t.”