He read in it the fulfilment of all his hopes.
Then old Lord Malvin came down the room, ancient, stately and bland.
"My dears," he said simply, "this must be a very happy night for you."
Sir William turned to the girl suddenly. His voice was confident and strong.
"My dear Marjorie," he said, "how kind they all are to us!"
A little group of four people sat down to the table beneath the crimson-shaded light.
Lord Malvin, the most famous scientist and most courtly gentleman of his time. Sir William Gouldesbrough, the hero of this famous party—to-morrow, when Donald Megbie had done his work, to be the hero of the civilized world.
Lady Poole. Sweet Marjorie Poole, in the grip of circumstances that were beyond her thinking.
And no one of the four—not even Sir William Gouldesbrough, F.R.S.—gave a thought to the man in the living tomb—to Guy Rathbone who was, even at that moment, tied up in india-rubber and aluminium bonds for the amusement of Mr. Guest, the pink, hairless man of Regent's Park. Mr. Guest was drunk of whisky, and sat happy, mocking his prisoner far down in the cellars of Sir William's house.
Other folk were drunk of success and applause in Portland Place.