"That fellow Carthew has gone off to the inn," he remarked to Mr. Jobling. "I expect he'll be busy by now wiring Bolder & Bolder the news."
"That won't do him any good," Mr. Jobling returned. "And, even if he had any case to go on with, there's nothing more they could do for him until the Hilary Sittings come on—very nearly a fortnight yet. As it is, he hasn't a leg left to stand on. You heard what old Gaunt said to her ladyship."
"There's no fear of anything getting into the newspapers prematurely, is there?" asked Slyne.
"I told Spettigrew to keep everything quiet," the lawyer answered complacently. "And, besides, they're all full to overflowing about the election that's coming on."
"I wonder if anyone ever wades through all the lurid twaddle they print at such times?" said Slyne, apparently pleased. And they two maintained a desultory conversation, to which Sallie only listened when it now and then veered back to matters which might affect Carthew or herself, until a sonorous gong began to sound in the corridor.
As its increasing thunder suddenly disturbed the cloistral quiet, Captain Dove, comfortably settled in his armchair beside the fire with a black clay pipe, started up in alarm and spilled the contents of the glass in his hand.
"What the devil are they about out there!" he ejaculated irascibly. "I'll blow a hole through that infernal tom-tom if they don't drop it."
"Time to dress for dinner," Slyne explained with a tolerant smile, and, rising, rang the bell. "Our rooms will be ready by now, I expect. But there's no hurry. All you need to change is your waistcoat."
"Damn nonsense!" snorted Captain Dove, and reaching for a decanter, was liberally refilling his glass when the girl Mairi answered the bell.
"Show her ladyship to her own rooms," Slyne directed. And Sallie followed the demure, flaxen-haired maid very eagerly.