“But, oh, Stuart, where’s the hat? You promised us the hat! Don’t say you’ve left it in the hall?”
He turned to Merle; and though he spoke courteously, his thoughts seemed very far away.
“My clerk told me it was important. Are you in any trouble? Or—can I?”—he hesitated, obviously waiting an excuse for their presence. And Merle’s cheeks began to burn.
“We—it isn’t really important,” she faltered. “I only—we thought——” oh, to be safely down the steps and out in the street! How could she say to this stranger: “We wanted you to come a-maying because it is April.” The thrill of primroses in the air had dwindled to a pin-point of triviality.
“We wondered whether you would care to join us for a day in the country,” she finished at last, lamely.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question to-day.” He appeared to realize dimly that something more was expected of him. His eye fell on Digby, eager for attention. The confidential clerk entered: “You’re wanted on the telephone, sir. Mr. Grey.” “All right, Lewis; ask him to hold the line,” alert response now in his voice; and he had already turned to the door, when he remembered his visitors. “We must be going,” said Merle quickly. He looked relieved. “Ah, then you’ll excuse me, I know. We’re rather rushed. Would you care to have a look round the place?”—he signalled to Lewis to wait, in case his services should be required as cicerone. “There’s nothing much to see, though. No treasure-vaults,” with a groping attempt to resume the language of which he had so patently mislaid the cipher.
And Merle, likewise clutching at her rags of self-respect, responded with a forced laugh: “You don’t make the diamonds, then?”
“No,” Stuart’s tones were somewhat grim. “We don’t make the diamonds.” He paused. Then, with a quick “Good-bye,” went to answer the telephone summons. “I’ll see you directly, Digby,” thrown out on his way to the door. Baldwin Carr appeared at another entrance: “Has Macpherson gone, Stuart? Derwent wanted to speak to you——” “Right! when I’ve polished off Grey.” What was the matter with all these men, that the wrinkle lay so deep between their eyebrows?
Baldwin glanced in some surprise at the figures of Peter and Merle, standing irresolutely by the window. Then returned to his private office.
The confidential clerk showed them out. A swinging door presented them with a snatch of telephonic conversation: “Yes, it’s Mr. Stuart Heron—Yes—No, not till to-night, nothing definite—we think——” The door swung to, cutting off the rest.