“My father might have been interested to see the papers.”
“You dear old fraud,” said Christopher with an odd little catch in his voice, “do you suppose St. Michael won’t see through you? Is it like you to travel this distance to see doubtful records when you won’t go to London to see genuine ones? Why did not St. Michael write to me?”
“Cæsar would not let him.”
“He must be ill.”
“He is not, on my word, Christopher. He is just worried to the verge of distraction by your being here. It seems ridiculous, but so it is.”
“Why didn’t you write yourself?”
Nevil considered the question gravely.
“Why didn’t I write? Oh, I know. I only thought of it this morning and it seemed quicker to come.”
“Or wire?” persisted Christopher.
“It would have cost such a lot to explain,” he answered candidly. “I did think of that and started to send one. Then I found I had only twopence in my pocket. If I had sent anyone else to the office everyone would have known I was sending for you and Cæsar would have been more annoyed than ever.”