This was Mr. Rainshore’s attempt to calm the hysteric sobbing of his wife, who had recovered from her short swoon in the little retreat of the person who sold Tauchnitzes, picture-postcards, and French novels, between the main corridor and the reading-rooms. Geraldine and Cecil were also in the tiny chamber.
“As for this,” Simeon continued, kicking the newspaper, “it’s a singular thing that a man can’t take a couple of days off without upsetting the entire universe. What should you do in my place, Thorold? This is the fault of your shaft.”
“I should buy Dry Goods shares,” said Cecil.
“And I will.”
There was an imperative knock at the door. An official of police entered.
“Monsieur Ryneshor?”
“The same.”
“We have received telegraphs from New York and Londres to demand if you are dead.”
“I am not. I still live.”
“But Monsieur’s hat has been found on the beach.”