Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice's rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtseying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand.
"'Tis a joke I must have you share! 'Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?"
Sir Maurice put forward a chair.
"Really? No, I did not know."
"Well, he is. And"—a chuckle escaped him—"so is yours!"
"Oh!" It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone.
Sir Maurice smiled.
"I guessed as much," he said, quite untruthfully. "Have you news from Henry?"
"No, not I! But I've a letter from an old friend of mine—Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?"
Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch, and beckoned Cleone to his side.