“Shall we go into the house?” said Ogilvie; “I want to get this thing over. I have not a moment if I am to start on Saturday.”
“You must do what we want. The public are impatient. We must get your report as soon as possible. You will wire it to us, of course.”
“That depends.”
“Now listen, Ogilvie,” said Lord Grayleigh, as they both entered the study of the latter and Ogilvie sank into a chair, “you either do this thing properly or you decline it, you give it up.”
“Can I? I thought the die was cast.”
“The worldly man in me echoes that hope, but I could get Atherton to take your place even now.”
“Even now?” echoed Philip Ogilvie.
“Even now it may be possible to manage it, although I”—Lord Grayleigh had a flashing memory of Sibyl’s face and the look in her eyes, when she spoke of her perfect father. Then he glanced at the man who, silent and with suppressed suffering in his face, stood before him. The irresolution in Ogilvie’s face took something from its character, and seemed to lower the man’s whole nature. Lord Grayleigh shivered; then the uncomfortable sensation which the memory of Sibyl gave him passed away.
“I shall regret it extremely if you cannot do what I want,” he said, with emphasis.
Ogilvie had a quick sensation of momentary relief. His wife owed another two thousand pounds. It would be bankruptcy, ruin if he did not go. He stood up.