"Mr. Cunningham talking," came the answer.
"I want to see you on very important business. Can I come this morning?"
"I think I didn't catch your name, madam."
"My name doesn't matter. I have information about—your uncle's death."
There was just an instant's pause. Then, "Ten o'clock, at the office here," Rose heard.
A dark, good-looking young man rose from a desk in the inner office when Rose entered exactly at ten. In his eyes there sparked a little flicker of surprised appreciation. Jack Cunningham was always susceptible to the beauty of women. This girl was lovely both of feature and of form. The fluent grace of the slender young body was charming, but the weariness of grief was shadowed under the long-lashed eyes.
She looked around, hesitating. "I have an appointment with Mr.
Cunningham," she explained.
"My name," answered the young man.
"Mr. James Cunningham?"
"Afraid you've made a mistake. I'm Jack Cunningham. This is my uncle's office. I'm taking charge of his affairs. You called his number instead of my brother's. People are always confusing the two."