So he and his sister decided to await them at the office.
The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy ushering them into Whitmore's private office.

As they passed down the railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one answering Collins's description had called that morning.
"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.
They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial ruin while awaiting Whitmore.

Immediately on dropping into a chair Mrs.
Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the harrowing thoughts that filled her mind.

Ward also became deeply preoccupied with his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to find some solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.
They took no note of the passing time; but the minutes sped swiftly while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little brass clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve.

An instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure, clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.
On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed.