"I'll stick there till Leslie's telegram comes," he said between his teeth, "if I stay there till doomsday."
He was consumed by anxiety. Leslie in London, and he did not know where! Good Heavens, could the telegram have miscarried? Was anything wrong? He tried to remain cool and confident, but he looked as he got out of the cab like a man oppressed by a terrible presentiment.
On the steps of the club stood Grey.
"Hallo!" said Yorke. "Grey!"
Grey touched his hat.
"I've been to Bury Street, my lord, and Fleming sent me here. His grace is back, and would be glad if you could come and see him."
Yorke hesitated, and was on the point of sending a message to say that he would come presently—to-morrow; then it occurred to him that the duke had come from Portmaris, and that he might have some news of the Lisles.
"All right," he said, "I'll come at once. Keep the cab."
He ran up the steps to the porter.