“Well, in that case, Sir Fergus——”
The confidential clerk entered noiselessly, and handed him a card: ‘Miss Merle des Essarts.’
“Here?”
“Two young ladies, Mr. Heron. Said it was important.”
“Oh—very well. Say that I’m coming at once.”
But it was several minutes before Sir Fergus rose to take leave. And then there were so many matters that clamoured for his brain’s attention; all overshadowed by a persistently recurring vision of a factory ... ten factories ... a thousand factories; men working; swarms of busy little figures; myriads of tiny white crystals the result of their labours,—the result of a few lines of writing that awaited the evening’s examination. Glittering crystals, produced in such quantities as to flood the universe like dewfall ... pretty little crystals, but utterly valueless.
Stuart straightened his shoulders. No good anticipating the worst. He opened the door of the anteroom: “Ah, Digby, I wanted to see you,”—and he of the wandering feet looked gratified.
Peter and Merle were waiting, rather impatiently, at the far end of the apartment. Some of their April joyousness had been swamped by the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them. The sunshine, creeping through the heavily curtained window, was merely metallic here. So that they greeted Stuart with relief.
“The face is perfect,” laughed Peter. “All we expected, and more. And now please take it off. Or is it merely semi-detached?”
Stuart did not reply. Nor was there perceptible alteration in his demeanour. But Peter was too amused by his garments of black decorum, to note that to-day they were something more than skin-deep.