But when the boat had made her slow way through the clatter of the Tyne, Reggie was quick to intercept the first customs officer on board. “I say, what was the result of that murder trial?”
The man laughed. “Thought you wanted the 3.30 winner, you were so keen, sir. Oh, Mark Carwell’s guilty, of course. His mother’s white-haired boy, he is. Not ’alf.”
“The voice of the people,” said Lomas, in Reggie’s ear.
On the way to London they read the judge’s summing up, an oration lucid and fair but relentless.
“He had no doubt,” Reggie said.
“And a good judge too,” Lomas tossed the paper aside. “Thank heaven they got it out of the way without bothering me.”
“You are an almost perfect official,” said Reggie with reverence.
In the morning when Reggie came down to his breakfast in London he was told that some one had rung up to know if he was back in England yet. He was only half-way through his omelet when the name of Miss Joan Amber was brought to him.
Every one who likes to see a beautiful actress act, and many who don’t care whether she can act or not, know what Miss Amber looks like, that large young woman with the golden eyes whom Reggie hurried to welcome. He held her hand rather a long while. “The world is very good to-day,” he said, and inspected her. “You don’t need a holiday, Miss Amber.”
“You’ve had too much, Mr. Fortune.”