"The servants are in bed, of course,"
he explained, as he led the way toward the lighted room. "This way,
please."
Behind the other, across the hall, Jimmie Dale followed and close at
Carling's heels entered the room, which was fitted up, quite evidently
regardless of cost, as a combination library and study. Carling, in
a somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward the
carved-mahogany flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand.
"Take a chair," he said, over his shoulder--and then, turning in the act
of dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the desk
instead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room.
Jimmie Dale was leaning back against the door that was closed now behind
him--and on Jimmie Dale's face was a black silk mask.
For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Carling, spare-built,
dapper in evening clothes, edged back from the desk and laughed a little
uncertainly.
"Quite neat! I compliment you! From headquarters with a report, I think
you said?"
"Which I neglected to add," said Jimmie Dale, "was to be made in
private."
Carling, as though to put as much distance between them as possible,
continued to edge back across the room--but his small black eyes, black
now to the pupils themselves, never left Jimmie Dale's face.
"In private, eh?"--he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled.
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