Rounceby put his hand to his forehead and found it moist.
“It’s been a silly game, all along,” he muttered. “We’d better have brought the young ass up here and jostled him!”
“Not so easy,” Marnstam answered. “These young fools have a way of turning obstinate. He’d have chucked us, sure. Anyhow, he’s safer where he is.”
They relapsed once more into silence. A storm of rain beat upon the window. Rounceby glanced up. It was as black out there as were the waters of that silent tarn! The man shivered as the thought struck him. Marnstam, who had no nerves, twirled his moustache and watched his companion with wonder.
“You look as though you saw a ghost,” he remarked.
“Perhaps I do!” Rounceby growled.
“You had better finish your drink, my dear fellow,” Marnstam advised. “Afterwards—”
Suddenly he stiffened into attention. He laid his hand upon his companion’s knee.
“Listen!” he said. “There is some one coming.”
They leaned a little forward. The swing doors were opened. A girl’s musical laugh rang out from the corridor. Tall and elegant, with her black lace skirt trailing upon the floor, her left hand resting upon the shoulder of the man into whose ear she was whispering, and whom she led straight to one of the writing tables, Miss Violet Brown swept into the room. On her right, and nearest to the two men, was Mr. Vincent Cawdor.