* * * * *
When upon Saturday morning Anthony received no bulletin from Hertfordshire, he did not know what to think. In the ordinary way he would have telegraphed, but telegrams cost money, which he really could not afford, and he was, in any event, to visit the Dogs' Home that afternoon…. He decided to do nothing. All the same, he was far from easy, for Friday morning's report had said that his terrier was not so well.
He went about his work abstractedly, glancing at the faces of the clocks times without number.
At five-and-twenty minutes past two, just as he was going to change, Lord Pomfret sent for him. Anthony ground his teeth. The man was his evil genius.
Mercifully the interview was a short one.
His lordship produced two pounds and curtly instructed the footman to expend the money upon the purchase of roses.
"They've got to be good ones, and you ought to be able to get stacks for two quid. I shan't want them till to-morrow morning, so they've got to be fresh. You'd better get them as late as you can, and put them in water directly you get in. That's all."
"Very good, my lord."
Lord Pomfret returned to the perusal of La Vie, and Anthony stepped to the door. As he was passing out—
"Lyveden," said his lordship sharply.