But it troubled him less than it might have done. The biggest and the best was over. The Master would hardly stay in Europe much longer. The climate of home would soon call him, as it called so many of his compatriots, back to the hale New England winter.
Doubtless he had reserved his berth already on a late October boat: his suite rather.... No.... Seeing his queer ways, rather a berth. But a single cabin. Oh, yes. Charlie was sure of that!
Meanwhile he, Charlie, had done extremely well, and that was the main thing. So had the other half of Blake and Blake.
He did not disturb the great man. He thought it would be time to call on him later in the holidays: he looked forward to a long respite from these awkward puzzling interviews, each of which had opened a new mine of gold, but each of which had increasingly strained poor Charlie. He was well rid of that strain.
In such a mood he got a sudden summons. Not over the ’phone; it was a brief note brought by hand to his office just as he was going off for the day. It was headed from the rooms in the Temple, and it ran:
“Dear Mr. Terrard,
“Will you not come round to me here as soon as you can. I am sorry to disturb you so late in office hours, but I shall think myself fortunate if this finds you. For your presence is, believe me, most urgent to my peace of mind.
“John K. Petre.”
Terrard was on the point of telephoning to the Temple to assure Mr. Petre that he was hastening westward to such a summons, when he remembered that this miserable hermit had cut off his wire. He would not lose a moment, even to see his partner. He left a scrawl for Charlbury telling him to be in that evening without fail: that Petre had suddenly woken up and was moving. Then he went off eastward at a trot to the Mansion House, rotored to Blackfriars, crossed on foot, rotored again to the Temple. No man could have done it in less, since the new regulations. From the Temple Gate, off Carmelite Street, he ran across to the Row, ran up the stairs, and stood puffing in front of Mr. Petre’s oak.
What was it? Heart? Rotor slump? Blackmail? He decided for blackmail, and was making a rapid calculation on the best business lines when the door opened—its own master opened it—and there stood Mr. Petre before him, haggard, tired out, stooping.