“No—yes,” was the response. “Get me a glass of champagne. Bring it here. And”—he hesitated a moment—“and ask the butler if any one has been here this morning. Any man—or woman—to see me,” he added, with assumed carelessness.
The man came back with the champagne.
“No one has been, sir.”
Bartley Bradstone drank the wine and drew a long breath.
“It’s fearfully hot,” he said; “and I had a bad night. If—if any one should come, tell her—I mean him—that I will see him later in the day.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man; “any name?”
Bartley Bradstone interrupted him with a curse.
“Just do as I tell you, will you?” he said, angrily. “That’s enough for you to do!”
Then, pushing past him, he went downstairs.
As his foot was on the step of the brougham he paused, stood for a moment or two looking at the ground, then turned, and, re-entering the house, went into the library.