He shook his head gloomily.
“I daren’t trust myself to think about that,” he said. “Your uncle seems to have made up his mind not to help us, and I’m beginning to lose faith in the whole story.”
“Still,” she persisted, “if the story should turn out to be true—and Uncle believes it—your home might be saved, and you would not have to go abroad at all.”
“It would be wonderful,” he admitted.
“Don’t give up hope then,” she whispered. “Uncle was quite sweet to me last night—absolutely different. He’s gone to London—but there, perhaps I ought not to tell you. Just wait. Something pleasant may happen, after all.”
The door was thrown open by Andrews, the butler. She gave Gregory her hand which he held for a moment and raised to his lips. Her farewell glance lingered long in his memory.
CHAPTER IX
Endacott, although abstracted, seemed for him to be in an almost genial frame of mind when he obeyed the summons of the evening gong and, meeting Claire in the hall, waited to enter the dining room with her.
“A tiring day, Uncle?” she asked him.
“Not particularly,” he answered. “I made only two calls. Phillpots kept me some time at the British Museum, or I could really have caught the earlier train.—How is the piano?”