“Naturally; only—I wish Gerald had kept out of it!”
“I’m not scared,” answered Gerald, stoutly. “I think, though, I’d better get breakfast if I’m going to get to Office at half-past. They say Collins hates you to be late.”
“And say, Gerald,” Alf admonished as they went out, “whatever you do, don’t let him think you’re trying to be smart or fresh. He hates that, too. Now come on and eat all you can.”
“Yes,” murmured Tom, “eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.”
“Why to-morrow?” asked Alf, cynically cheerful. “What’s the matter with to-day?”
When Gerald entered the outer Office at precisely one minute before the appointed time, he found it occupied by seven persons. First, there was Mr. Collins, seated at his desk by the window; then Mr. Forisher, the secretary, settling down for his morning’s work; then three boys, Benton and Hale and Graves; and last but not least, occupying a chair in a corner, was a man of middle age with Irish features whom Gerald instantly guessed to be the Broadwood gardener. He was dressed immaculately and uncomfortably in his best black suit, and held a derby hat tightly in his lap. At Gerald’s entrance every occupant of the room looked toward him, but all removed their gaze after a second save the man in the corner. Long after Gerald had taken his seat, he was aware that the gardener was still regarding him triumphantly.
Presently Mr. Collins laid aside the work he had been occupied with and swung about in his swivel-chair. He glanced from one of the audience to another, and finally encountered the gaze of the man in the corner.
“Well?” he asked. “Is he here?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the gardener, decisively.
“Quite certain, Mr. Grogan?”