"I cannot go beyond what I have said," was the reply. "If you like to
ask at his house--"

"O, ring off!" cried Theydon, who pictured the secretary as a lanky
hollow-cheeked Scot, a model of discretion and trustworthiness, no
doubt, but utterly unequal to a crisis demanding some measure of
self-confident initiative. In reality, Mr. Macdonald was short and
stout, and quite a jovial little man.

After an exasperating delay, he got into communication with the Forbes
mansion in Fortescue Square.

"I'm Mr. Frank Theydon," he said, striving to speak unconcernedly. "Is
Mr. Forbes in?"

"No, sir."

"Is that you, Tomlinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Forbes at once?"

"Isn't he at his office, sir?"

"No. He will not be there till 12 o'clock."

A pause of indecision on Tomlinson's part. Then, a possible solution
of the difficulty.