CHAPTER XXVI THE NINTH HOUR
Silently, and with his accustomed efficiency, Thomson moved about the boudoir rearranging some of the furniture. In the centre he placed the largest of the beautiful ormolu tables, set round it several of the gilt Louis-Seize chairs, leaving a clear space at the side that faced Lady Rawson’s portrait; and finally put pens, ink, and paper before each chair. That done he made up the fire, looked round the room as if to assure himself that all was in order, and departed, going first to his own room. There he unlocked a drawer, took out an old cigar-box, glanced at the contents, and, with the box under his arm, went through to his master’s bedroom.
Sir Robert was in bed and sound asleep. He had become restless and feverish after the departure of Grace Carling and Austin Starr, and Thomson had taken upon himself to ring up the doctor, who came round at once, ordered the patient to bed, and administered an opiate, which took effect immediately.
Thomson stood for a minute or so looking at his master’s face, stern even in sleep, then slightly opened the outer door so that he could hear anyone ascending the staircase, and seated himself near, where he could still watch the invalid.
Presently he heard the sounds for which he listened—a knock and ring at the front door, soft footsteps outside, and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. He did not move, but still waited and listened.
Jenkins, the butler, acting on the very explicit instructions he had received, took the visitor up to the boudoir. He was none other than the Home Secretary, Gerald Lorimer—a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man, with alert, clean-cut face.
He glanced round the room with an air of surprise, sniffed disapproval of the heavy perfume-laden atmosphere, and asked quickly:
“Where is Sir Robert?”