She pulled the bell-cord, and Jones came at once to the room.
“Yes, madam.”
“When Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs return from the ship, tell them that I shall expect them to have luncheon with me. That's all, thank you.”
“Yes, madam.”
“By the way, Jones, you may always set the table for three.”
Jones blinked. He felt that he had never behaved so wonderfully in all the years of service as he did when he succeeded in bowing in his habitual manner, despite the fact that he was “everlawstingly bowled over, so to speak.”
“For three, madam. Very well.”
A cold, blustery night in January, six months after the beginning of Yvonne's voluntary servitude in the prison to which her husband had committed her. In the big library, before a roaring fire, sat the two old men, very much as they had sat on the December night that heralded the approach of the new mistress of the house of Brood, except that on this occasion they were eminently sober. On the corner of the table lay a long, yellow envelope, a cablegram addressed to Mrs James Brood.
“It's been here for two hours, and she don't even think of opening it to see what's inside,” complained Mr Riggs, but entirely without reproach.
“It's her business, Joe,” said Mr Dawes, pulling hard at his cigar.