“Damn the Trust!” cried Stranleigh. “I beg your pardon; I should have said, blow the Trust! I thought I had lost the power of becoming excited, not to say profane. It must be the exhilarating air of America. The sale is a good way off yet, and I think it will be further off before I get through with it. If you will accept the management, and your father-in-law proves at all reasonable, I guarantee to find the necessary money.”
“You mean that, Mr. Ponderby——”
“Exactly. I am his chief business adviser, as well as his only chauffeur. But we are forgetting the matter in hand. We must rescue the wardrobe of Mrs. Challis. Drive on to the mansion. You know the way, and I don’t.”
“I’m a warned-off trespasser, but here goes.”
“You won’t be called on to trespass very much. You’re my chauffeur, pro tem. Perhaps you won’t need to enter the house at all. I shall see Mrs. Anson before I meet her husband, if possible, and will try to persuade her to give me the wardrobe.”
“She would not have the courage to do that without her husband’s permission, and he will never give it.”
“We’ll see about that. Ah, the mill is not the only piece of property to be sold!”
They had turned into a well-shaded avenue, to the massive stone gate-pillars of which were attached posters similar to those at the mill, only in this case it was “This valuable, desirable and palatial residence,” with the hundreds of acres of land attached, that were to be knocked down by the auctioneer’s hammer.
“I might have known,” commented Stranleigh, “that if Mr. Anson was bankrupt at his mill, he was also bankrupt at his house.”
They drew up at the entrance. Stranleigh stepped down, and rang the bell, Challis remaining in the car. Shown into the drawing-room, the visitor was greeted by a sad-looking, elderly woman.