"Me, too. Ought to bring results pretty quick. By the way, you were complaining last night that you never heard of me until you came here. I've been thinking that over, and I've decided to make up to you in the next few days for all those lonely years—"
But the morning had been too much for Minot. Worried, distressed, he lost for the moment his usual smiling urbanity.
"Oh, go to the devil!" he said, and walked away.
Lunch time came—two o'clock. At half past two, out of London, Jephson spoke. Said his cable:
"Know nothing of G.R. except that she's been married frequently. Do best you can."
And what help was this, pray? Disgustedly Minot read the cable again. Four o'clock was coming on apace, and with every tick of the clock his feeling of helplessness grew. He mentally berated Thacker and Jephson. They left him alone to grapple with wild problems, offering no help and asking miracles. Confound them both!
Three o'clock came. What—what was he to say? Lord Harrowby, interrogated, was merely useless and frantic. He couldn't raise a shilling. He couldn't offer a suggestion. "Dear old chap," he moaned, "I depend on you."
Three-thirty! Well, Thacker and Jephson had asked the impossible, that was all. Minot felt he had done his best. No man could do more. He was very sorry for Jephson, but—golden before him opened the possibility of Miss Cynthia Meyrick free to be wooed.
Yet he must be faithful to the last. At a quarter to four he read Jephson's cablegram again. As he read, a plan ridiculous in its ineffectiveness occurred to him. And since no other came in the interval before four, he walked into Miss Rose's presence determined to try out his weak little bluff.
The Gaiety lady was playing on the piano—a whispering, seductive little tune. As Minot stepped to her side she glanced up at him with a coy inviting smile. But she drew back a little at his determined glare.