It happened, shortly afterwards, that Miss Cullen left her bedroom to come downstairs. As she went along the corridor she met a gentleman who was being conducted by a servant, probably to his own apartment. The gentleman was Sir Tristram Triggs. When Sir Tristram saw Miss Cullen, and Miss Cullen saw Sir Tristram, they both of them stopped short. The great man's complexion was, normally, of a ruddy hue. At sight of the lady he turned the colour of a beetroot, boiled. She drew herself up to the full capacity of her inches. And she uttered a single monosyllable.
"You!"
That was all she said--then went sweeping on.
"That horrid man!--He here!--To think of it!--If I'd only known that he was coming I do believe, in spite of Tommy, that I'd have stayed away."
At the foot of the stairs Miss Cullen encountered Mr. Stanham. That gentleman had, as he was wont to have, his hands in his pockets. Also, as he was not wont to have, he had a face as long as his arm.
"I say, Frank, old man, isn't there somewhere where I can have a word or two with you on the strict Q.T.?"
"Certainly--the library. There's never a soul in there."
One would not like to libel Tuttenham so far as to say, with Miss Cullen, that the only tenants the library ever had were the books. But, on that occasion, it did chance that the pair had the whole place to themselves. Mr. Stanham perched himself on a corner of the table, still with his hands in his pockets.
"There's going to be a pretty kettle of fish, dear boy."
That was what the gentleman observed.