"All right," said Heyton, dully. "Here, come in here!" They entered the library by the French door.
"A beautiful room: magnificent!" murmured Mr. Jacobs. He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out on the writing-slope. "Just here, my lord, if you please; it's a kind of authorization from you to take charge of the case."
He handed Heyton a pen, and Heyton looked at the paper hazily and was about to sign, when Mr. Jacobs, in drawing the inkstand nearer, had the misfortune to upset it. The ink ran over the paper, and over Heyton's fingers.
"What the devil!" he exclaimed, angrily.
"I beg your pardon, my lord! I'm very sorry; very sorry; it was dreadfully clumsy of me. Dear, dear; it's all over your lordship's hand! Here, wipe it on this, my lord!"
In his agitation and embarrassment, Mr. Jacobs actually caught hold of Heyton's hand and pressed it on a sheet of paper.
"Tut, tut," he said. "I thought it was blotting-paper! Here it is! I really am so sorry—never did such a thing in my life before!"
"Damned clumsy of you!" growled Heyton. "I'm in a beast of a mess! Where's a cloth?"
"Pray take my handkerchief, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, offering it.
At this moment, Celia entered the room. She would have drawn back at sight of the two men; but Heyton called to her over his shoulder.