With a bound Jack appeared at the door of the plaster-room. Winborough's face was flushed with anger, his words were brief and final.
"Possibly I may write to you about this bust. I'll consider the matter. Good-day."
Waiting for no response, he turned and strode across the studio to the other door. There he spun round suddenly on his heel and flung a final threat at Geoff.
"As to you—well—you'll be convinced of your folly very shortly. On Thursday morning you will receive a packet of papers from my lawyer that may serve to bring you to your senses. After that, I wash my hands of you."
So saying, he left the room, and in another moment the front door had banged behind him.
"What's up," inquired Pallister with assumed innocence, entering the studio. "Where's his lordship gone to, running off just when we are ready for him?"
Geoff made no answer. He sat moodily by the table, his chin resting upon his clenched hand. He murmured a few words beneath his breath, but bestowed not the least attention upon his two companions.
Jack spoke despondently.
"I'm afraid Lord Winborough isn't going to let me do that bust after all. Didn't you hear what he said? That possibly he would write to me. Only 'possibly.' I know those 'possiblies.'"
Pallister's countenance assumed an expression of incredulous disgust.