“More useful to us than any one,” Sir Bertram remarked. “Gregory has a couple of wonderful wooden Images up at the Hall—you’ve seen them, Mr. Johnson—which are supposed to be full of jewels if we could only discover the key. That poor fellow Endacott knew all about it. He was at work on some papers, which he had brought home with him from China, just before his death, but up to then he had not come across anything that helped us.”
Mr. Johnson rose to his feet.
“If I might be permitted to pay my respects to Miss Endacott as soon as she arrives,” he begged, “I should be glad.”
“Certainly,” Madame assented.
“Is Miss Endacott expected here?” Sir Bertram asked.
“This afternoon,” she replied. “I only heard last night.”
For a single second there was a curious change in Sir Bertram’s face. The insouciance, almost the gaiety, seemed suddenly to have fallen away, as though it had been a mask. His eyes were hard and tired. Then he recovered himself.
“Opportune,” he remarked lightly. “Come and see us again soon up at the Hall, Mr. Johnson.”
The latter bowed to Madame and turned away. There was something almost menacing in his gravity.
“You are very kind, Sir Bertram,” he said, as he took his leave.