Five hours and a half had gone dragging by and Bagot was in the gallery, oiling an aged hinge, and wondering how to word his communiqué to Spring.
Suddenly the throb of a bell came to his vigilant ears.
The can went into a locker, and the Groom of the Chambers descended into the hall.
He tried his best to be calm, but his nerves were taut. A good deal depended upon this interview—their tiny home, their living, their . . .
With his hand on the mighty latch, Willoughby moistened his lips. . . .
Spring was standing alone on the broad flags, very smartly dressed, looking ridiculously girlish, and inspecting her thin gold ring with her head on one side.
Behind her, in the hot sunshine, was gleaming the grey and silver of a magnificent coupé.
Husband and wife regarded each other with beating hearts.
Then—