Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.
“Too Late! Too Late!”
Markworth still sat in the same position in the untidy, ill-furnished private room at the sponging-house after the governess, his enemy, had left him—with his face hidden between his hands and his head bent down, the summer sun still streaming down on him, for the sun shines for rich and poor alike: for those in captivity, and for those that are free!
Clara Kingscott, meanwhile, directed her steps once more to the offices of Mr Trump and his partner, in Bedford Row. She did not dread a refusal this time: she did not hold back for fear of being denied admission: she had news—news! to communicate now, and they must see her!
“Mr Trump was out,” said one of the clerks.
Miss Kingscott was in no hurry—although she was out of breath with the haste she had made from the hotel restante of Abednego—she “would wait until Mr Trump came in.”
That would never do, thought the clerk; his master wouldn’t be pleased to find his bête noir seated there in his outer office, ready to pounce upon him when he made his appearance. So fearful of a probable blowing up, the embryo Sheepskin tried again.
“Mr Trump was busy; he could not see anyone to-day.”