“Yes, you’d better!” he said grimly. “There, I suppose you must do as you like.”
She nodded and kissed him affectionately, while he seemed to look less firm in the pleasant light shed by her eyes as he handed her the keys of his cash-box.
“Now then, dear,” she said, “business. Bless us! Who’s that?”
There was a sharp rolling knock at the door, and they stood listening.
“I hope we’re not too late, dear,” whispered Mrs Barclay excitedly.
“Denville’s voice for a guinea,” cried Barclay.
“Then you can tell him all, and you two can go and stop any attempt the silly little woman may make to run away.”
“Mr Denville, sir,” said Joseph, ushering in the Master of the Ceremonies, very pale and careworn under his smiling guise, as he minced into the room, hat in one hand, snuff-box in the other, and his cane hanging by its silken cord and tassels from his wrist.
“My dear Mrs Barclay, your very humble servant. My dear Barclay, yours. It seems an age since we met.”
“Oh, poor dear man!” sighed Mrs Barclay to herself. “He can’t know a word.”