Unaware of the thoughts of his man, and that Mario himself had joined in the general conspiracy against him, McTaggart at last reached home.
London was stuffy, white with dust, after the green countryside, and as they drove through deserted streets he was planning already his next departure. Lord Warleigh had asked him up to Scotland to shoot for the last week in August, and this would fit in well with his plans to spend a few days with the Leasons. The Uniackes, he knew, were off shortly for a month at Worthing, and McTaggart had a hazy idea of a motor trip in his new car on the south coast to fill the gap before he should start for the North.
He wondered if Bethune would care to join him; conscious, with a touch of remorse, that of late he had neglected the latter, absorbed in his own friendship with Jill.
And as if in answer to the question he found Bethune awaiting him.
But the first glance at his visitor's face drove away all minor thoughts.
For trouble was plainly written there.
"That you, McTaggart?" His voice was curt, without its usual hearty ring.
"I want to speak to you a moment." He closed the door carefully.
"Hullo—Bethune—you're quite a stranger! What's up?" said McTaggart lightly. He did not quite like his reception, feeling an odd premonition. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" he added.
"Everything. I've bad news. Trouble again—at the Uniackes—I've been waiting for you over an hour."