He struck presently a small gong, and the butler appeared.
"Where is Miss Rivers?"
"I am not sure, sir. She was, I believe, in the garden with Miss Fitzalan. I will inquire if she is gone out."
Slade was a middle-aged man, highly superior and elaborately polite. He had so quiet a step as to be suggestive of tip-toe, and no excitement ever caused him to raise his voice above the suppressed accents which he counted decorous.
"Do so," was the brief answer. "If Miss Rivers is in, ask her to come to me."
Slade vanished, and Mr. Dalrymple went on writing. As each letter came to an end, he read it through, copied it, folded it neatly, enveloped, addressed, stamped, and laid it aside; placed the copy in one drawer, and the answered letter in another; then turned his attention to a fresh claimant. There were no signs of either haste or weariness in the method of proceeding. Mr. Dalrymple seemed interested and thoroughly business-like.
Rap-rap softly at the door; and enter Slade once more.
"Well?" Mr. Dalrymple said.
"I cannot find Miss Rivers, sir."
"Have you asked Milton?"