He went further and further, aimlessly penetrating to the very heart of the jungle of departments. He had glimpses of departments that he had not seen for weeks. At length he came to the verdant and delicious Flower Department (hot-house branch), and by chance he caught a word which brought him to a standstill.
'What's that?' he asked sharply, of a salesman in white.
'Order for orange-blossom, sir. A single sprig only. Rather a curious order, sir.'
'You can supply it?'
'Without doubt, sir.'
'Who is the customer?'
'Mr. Francis Tudor,' replied the salesman, looking at a paper. 'No. 7, the Flats.'
'Ah yes,' he said; and thought: 'My life is over.'
He gazed with unseeing eyes into the green and shady recesses of the palmarium, where water trickled and tinkled.
What was the power, the influence, the lever, which Francis Tudor was using to induce Camilla to marry him—him whom, on her own statement, she did not love? And could Louis Ravengar be in earnest, after all, with his savage threats?