"He has gone already. I paid him off this morning."
Mr. Daventry ceased abruptly from his vociferations.
"Thank you, Walton," he said. "Then that's ended," and he sat down.
But he had hardly taken his seat when the door opened and the parlor-maid brought to him upon a salver a folded slip of dirty paper.
"A man came with this to the door, sir. He is waiting for an answer."
Robert Daventry unfolded the slip and read the message written within it. He did not lift his eyes when he had read. He sat staring at the paper like a statue. And he sat amidst a deep silence. The cloud which had but now been lifted, had gathered once more above the heads of that small company. Though Robert Daventry did not speak, his long silence spoke for him; and though he schooled his face to composure, it was plain that he schooled it. A vague disquiet held the others at the table. Not one of them but had a conviction that this dirty, insignificant, scrap of writing announced a catastrophe.
Joan was the first to move. She walked round the table and stood behind her husband. He did not hear the rustle of her gown; and he was not aware that she leaned over him to read the message until the pressure of her hand upon his shoulder reminded him that she was his ally.
"You had better see the man, Robert," she said. "He calls late, but probably he needs help."
Thus she sought to pass the message off.
"Very well, I will," said Robert. He turned to the parlor-maid. "Bring him to my study when I ring the bell."