Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time.
Titus glanced at his watch.
“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow—— Thunder of heaven, here she is.”
It was true.
As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms.
“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.”
Cheviot’s brain reeled.
“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?”
“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?”
“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——”