Mr. Sabin did what was for him an exceptional thing. He sat down and laughed to himself softly, but with a genuine and obvious enjoyment.
“Blanche,” he said, “it was a lucky thing that I discovered you. No one else could have appreciated you properly.”
She looked at him with a sudden hardness.
“You should appreciate me,” she said, “for what I am you made me. I am of your handiwork: a man should appreciate the tool of his own fashioning.”
“Nature,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “had made the way easy for me. Mine were but finishing touches. But we have no time for this sort of thing. You have done well at Deringham and I shall not forget it. But your dismissal just now is exceedingly awkward. For the moment, indeed, I scarcely see my way. I wonder in what direction Lord Deringham will look for your successor?”
“Not anywhere within the sphere of your influence,” she answered. “I do not think that I shall have a successor at all just yet. There was only a week’s work to do. He will copy that himself.”
“I am very much afraid,” Mr. Sabin said, “that he will; yet we must have that copy.”
“You will be very clever,” she said slowly. “He has put watches all round the place, and the windows are barricaded. He sleeps with a revolver by his side, and there are several horrors in the shape of traps all round the house.”
“No wonder,” Mr. Sabin said, “that people think him mad.”