"Good morning, Colonel," he said civilly. "Mr. Kent is not here.
Do you wish to leave any message?"
"Oh, good morning, Sylvester," McIntyre's manner was brusque. "When
do you expect Mr. Kent?"
"In about twenty minutes, Colonel." Sylvester glanced at the wall
clock. "Won't you sit down?"
McIntyre took the chair and planted it by the window. Never a very
patient man, he waited for Kent with increasing irritation, and at
the end of half an hour his temper was uppermost. "Give me something
to write with," he demanded of Sylvester. Accepting the clerk's
fountain pen without thanks, he walked over to the center table and,
drawing out his leather wallet, took from it a visiting card and,
stooping over, wrote
You have but thirty-six hours remaining.
McIntyre.
"See that Mr. Kent gets this card," he directed. "No, don't put it
there," irascibly, as the clerk laid the card on top of a pile of
letters. "Take it into Mr. Kent's office and put it on his desk."
There was that about Colonel McIntyre which inspired complete
obedience to his wishes, and Sylvester followed his directions
without further question.
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