He took a turn up and down the room in silence.
"Extremely annoying," he said, with laudable moderation; "and I can't imagine what has happened, or who is responsible for the first telegram. Alington cannot have caused it to be sent merely to make the market active, for it was certain to be contradicted."
A man came into the room with a telegram on a salver, and handed it to Jack.
"Reply paid, my lord," he said.
Jack turned it over in his hand without opening it, unable to make the effort. Then he suddenly tore it open, and unfolded the thin pink sheet. It was from Alington.
"Can you meet me to-morrow morning at my rooms, St. James's Street?" it ran.
He scribbled an affirmative, and gave it back to the man.
"I shall have to go up to-morrow," he said to Toby; "Alington wants me to meet him in London; I shall go, of course. What a blessing one is a gentleman, and doesn't scream and sweat! Now, not a word to anyone; it may not be as bad as it looks."
Jack started off early next morning, and drove straight to Alington's rooms. Sounds of piano-playing came from upstairs, and this somehow gave him a sense of relief. "People in extremis do not play pianos," he said to himself, as he mounted the stairs. Alington got up as soon as he came in.
"I am glad you were able to come," he said; "it was expedient—necessary almost—that I should see you."