He rose and glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He had slept through the most miserable hour of Millicent Chyne's life.
At the head of the spacious staircase he paused in front of the mirror, half hidden behind exotics, and pressed down his wig behind either ear. Then he went into the drawing-room.
Lady Cantourne was standing impatiently on the hearthrug, and scarcely responded to his bow.
“Has Jack been here?” she asked.
“No.”
She stamped a foot, still neat despite its long journey over a road that had never been very smooth. Her manner was that of a commander-in-chief, competent but unfortunate, in the midst of a great reverse.
“He has not been here this afternoon?”
“No,” answered Sir John, closing the door behind him.
“And you have not heard anything from him?”
“Not a word. As you know, I am not fortunate enough to be fully in his confidence.”