He was dressing for dinner when he was called to the telephone. He was surprised to hear Kean’s voice at the other end.
“Come round after dinner and we’ll finish our conversation of this morning,” he said.
Fayre’s first feeling was one of relief. He knew that Kean would not have suggested an interview unless Sybil had definitely turned the corner. He gave a hasty assent, but before he could inquire after her, Kean had rung off.
As soon as he had finished his solitary dinner he set out for Westminster.
Kean met him in the hall and led the way into his study. He had been working and held a closely written manuscript in his hand. He pushed Fayre gently into an armchair and placed a box of cigars at his elbow, then he seated himself at the writing-table.
“I’ve got the whole story here,” he said, pointing to the papers before him. “I suggest that you take it to Grey first thing to-morrow morning. He will know what to do with it. I might have sent it to you. In some ways it would have been easier for me, but I’ve got a feeling I’d rather you heard it from my own lips.”
The amused contempt which had angered Fayre earlier in the day had gone from his voice and had given place to an utter weariness. His face was grey with fatigue, and Fayre, remembering all he had gone through that day, forgot his anxiety about Leslie and was conscious only of compassion. He rose impulsively to his feet.
“Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, all the warmth of their long friendship back in his voice. “Let’s leave the whole thing for to-night. You’re not fit for it. I’ll take that paper home with me and go through it there or, if you’d prefer it, we can have it out to-morrow. I don’t know to what extent it will help Leslie but a few hours’ delay can make little difference to him.”
Kean shook his head.
“We’ll go through with it now,” he said, with a touch of his old vigour. “I shan’t sleep till it’s over and done with.”