After he had gone she sat down and thought the matter over. The financial catastrophe appalled her. She had grown so used to a life of luxury. And the threat? It seemed fantastic, impossible of fulfillment. Never in her life had she been coerced by force. There was one way out—Meredith’s way. But she could not bring herself to take that course. Meredith had never succeeded in arousing the slightest passion within her. He had been merely a plaything—a simpering, compliment-throwing nincompoop of a type that most society women felt a need for, as food for their vanity. She decided that the most sensible plan would be to spend the next day with her people.
Jim arrived at ten o’clock precisely, in a cab, with a single bag of luggage. The footman, who had already suffered once at Jim’s hands, tremblingly 110 vouchsafed the news that Mrs. Conlan was out.
“Where’s she gone?”
He didn’t know. She went out very early and had said she might not return that day.
“Tell her maid to get some clothes packed up for her mistress—strong ones. Have ’em ready in an hour.”
The man stared.
“Beat it!” growled Jim, “or I’ll come and superintend it myself. If they’re not ready when I come back, watch out for trouble!”
He ran down the steps and told the driver to drive to Lord Featherstone’s house. Instinctively he guessed Angela’s port of refuge. Arriving there, a burly footman told him that His Lordship was not at home. The next instant Jim was in the hall. The second flunkey looked at the first. They had received strict instructions that Mr. Conlan was not to be admitted. They both came to the conclusion that physical obstruction in this case was tantamount to suicide.
“Lead the way,” said Jim.