Julian rose to his feet as he spoke. Furley looked at him helplessly.
“How in heaven’s name, man,” he groaned, “shall I be able to make you see the truth!”
A touch of the winter sunlight was upon Julian’s face which, curiously enough, at that moment resembled his father’s in its cold, patrician lines. The mention of Nicholas Fenn’s name seemed to have transformed him.
“If I were you, Furley,” he advised, “for the sake of our friendship, I wouldn’t try. There is no consideration in the world which would alter my intentions.”
There was the sound of the lifting of the outer latch, a knock at the door. The incoming visitors stood upon no ceremony. Mr. Stenson and Catherine showed themselves upon the threshold.
Mr. Stenson waved aside all ceremony and at once checked Furley’s attempt to rise to his feet.
“Pray don’t get up, Furley,” he begged, shaking hands with him. “I hope you’ll forgive such an informal visit. I met Miss Abbeway on my way down to the sea, and when she told me that she was coming to call on you, I asked leave to accompany her.”
“You’re very welcome, sir,” was the cordial response. “It’s an honour which I scarcely expected.”
Julian found chairs for every one, and Mr. Stenson, recognising intuitively a certain state of tension, continued his good-humoured remarks.
“Miss Abbeway and I,” he said, “have been having a most interesting conversation, or rather argument. I find that she is entirely of your way of thinking, Furley. You both belong to the order of what I call puffball politicians.”