Mr. Farrington shivered. "Beastly," he said, huskily.
T. B. glanced round the beautiful apartment with its silver fittings, its soft lights and costly panellings. A rich, warm fire burnt in an oxidized steel grate. The floor was a patchwork of Persian rugs, and a few pictures which adorned the walls must have been worth a fortune.
On the desk there was a big photograph in a plain silver frame—the photograph of a handsome woman in the prime of life.
"Pardon me," said T. B., and crossed to the picture, "this is——"
"Lady Constance Dex," said the other, shortly—"a great friend of mine and my ward's."
"Is she in town?"
Mr. Farrington shook his head.
"She is at Great Bradley," he said; "her brother is the rector there."
"Great Bradley?"
T. B.'s frown showed an effort to recollect something.