“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I wanted you to help me to get even with Curtis,” he replied regretfully. His tone was somewhat reminiscent of a rueful schoolboy.
Despite himself Antony smiled.
“I ordered him to come here at three o’clock,” went on Nicholas, glancing at the clock which wanted only five minutes of the hour. “I wanted to give him his congé, and introduce him to the new agent at the same moment. He believes firmly in my demise, by the way, which would certainly have added zest to the business. And now—well, it will be a pretty flat sort of compromise, that’s all.”
Antony laughed aloud. For the life of him he could not help it. And then, as he laughed, he realized in a sudden flash, almost as Trix had realized, the odd pathos, the utter loneliness which could find interest in the mad business he—Nicholas—had invented.
Suddenly Antony spoke.
“You may as well carry out your original programme,” he said, and almost good-humouredly annoyed at his own swift change of mood.
The library door opened.
“Mr. Spencer Curtis,” announced Jessop on a note of solemn gloom.