"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like this. However, we shall see."
I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the Treasury.
"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and blank.
"No; and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."
"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is most mysterious. Thorndyke is so, very punctilious about his engagements."
The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."
"A note for P. B. is on the table," was the laconic message: on reading which I inserted my key, swung the heavy door outward, and opened the lighter inner door. The note was lying on the table and I brought it out to the landing to read by the light of the staircase lamp.
"Apologize to our friends," it ran, "for the slight change of programme. Norbury is anxious that I should get my experiments over before the Director returns, so as to save discussion. He has asked me to begin to-night and says he will see Mr. and Miss Bellingham here, at the Museum. Please bring them along at once. I think some matters of importance may transpire at the interview—J. E. T."
"I hope you don't mind," I said apologetically, when I had read the note to Ruth.
"Of course I don't," she replied. "I am rather pleased. We have so many associations with the dear old Museum, haven't we?" She looked at me for a moment with a strange and touching wistfulness and then turned to descend the stone stairs.