Mr. Johnson's call, which at any other time would have been a tiresome infliction, was welcome, for it enabled the banker to dismiss this odd, queer, unpleasant business of the anonymous letter from his mind for a while.
But after Mr. Johnson had gone, the trouble came back, and the morning—what was left of it—seemed very long.
He asked himself whether, after all, it might not be wisest to speak of that absurd letter to some one. Should he say anything to Mrs. Tropenell, or well, yes—to Laura? But impatiently he shook his head at the thought. Not only would such a thing shock and disgust his wife, but, what was of far more consequence to him, it might make her turn against Tropenell! Godfrey Pavely had been pleased and surprised at the way in which Laura had tolerated the other man being so much about the house. In Pavely's imagination Tropenell was his friend—not Laura's.
He was glad when he heard a quarter to one chime out from the Parish Church tower, for it meant that he could now get up and go across to the Club for luncheon. He put on his hat and went out into the square hall of the Bank.
As he did so, his head clerk came down the broad staircase.
Mr. Privet's room was only a little smaller, and a little less lacking in dignity, than that of Mr. Pavely himself—indeed, some people thought it a pleasanter room, for it looked out on to the High Street, and was on the first floor.
"If you'd been a minute earlier, sir," said the old man, smiling, "you'd have seen Mrs. Pavely go by! I think she must have been in Mrs. Tropenell's motor, for Mr. Tropenell was driving her himself."
Godfrey Pavely felt a queer little pang of annoyance and surprise.
"I daresay they're still in the town," he said quickly. "I thought it quite possible that they might come in this morning."
But he had thought nothing of the kind.