“Yes, I know that,” said Audrey. “But you are such an expensive luxury.”
Mr. Shinner pushed away the accusation with both hands. “Madam, madam, I shall take all the risks. I should not dream, now, of asking for a cheque on account. On the contrary, I should guarantee a percentage of the gross receipts. Perhaps I am unwise to take risks—I dare say I am—but I could not bear to see your husband in the hands of another agent. We professional men have our feelings.”
“Don’t cry, Mr. Shinner,” said Audrey impulsively. It was not a proper remark to make, but the sudden impetuous entrance of Musa himself, carrying his violin case, eased the situation.
“There is a man which is asking for you outside in the corridor,” said Musa to his wife. “It is the gardener, Aguilar, I think. I have brought all the luggage, not excluding that which was lost at Hamburg.” He had a glorious air, and was probably more proud of his still improving English and of his ability as a courier than of his triumphs on the fiddle. “Ah!” Mr. Shinner was bowing before him.
“This is Mr. Shinner, the agent, my love,” said Audrey. “I’ll leave you to talk to him. He sees money in you.”
In the passage the authentic Aguilar stood with Miss Ingate.
“Here’s Mr. Aguilar,” said Miss Ingate. “I’m just going into No. 37, Madame Piriac’s room. Don’t you think Mr. Aguilar looks vehy odd in London?”
“Good morning, Aguilar. You in town on business?”
Aguilar touched his forehead. It is possible that he looked very odd in London, but he was wearing a most respectable new suit of clothes, and might well have passed for a land agent.
“’Mornin’, ma’am. I had to come up because I couldn’t get delivery of those wallpapers you chose. Otherwise all the repairs and alterations are going on as well as could be expected.”