He might be a rogue at bottom, and his wealth might not have been acquired honestly, but he was a very pleasant one. And as a host he was beyond reproach.
When Smeaton entered the dining-room the next morning, the butler was waiting for him with a letter in his hand.
“Mr Whyman was called away early this morning, sir. He has left this note for you.”
“Dear Mr Smeaton,” ran the brief epistle. “A thousand apologies for treating you in this discourteous fashion. I received a letter just now calling me abroad on urgent business that brooks no delay. I may be absent some few weeks. Trusting we shall meet again—Yours sincerely, James Whyman.”
Smeaton was too accustomed to surprises to exhibit any emotion. He sat down and ate an ample breakfast, and cogitated over the sudden departure of his host.
The one obvious fact was that Whyman had flown. He need not waste time over that. The important thing remained: what was the reason of his hurried flight?
Before he left the room Smeaton crossed over to a writing-desk in the window, and peered into the waste-paper basket at the side. A forlorn hope—it was empty. A torn-up envelope might have revealed the postmark.
But Mr Whyman was evidently too old a bird to leave anything behind him that would enlighten one of the keenest detectives in England.