When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive oaken door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail pocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings, poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.
'I think you will find that right,' he said; 'six thousand pounds in all.'
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:—
'Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?'
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring, to keep his memory green:—
'A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.'
'Not at home?' cried the vibrant voice. 'Nonsense! Everybody is at home on Christmas Eve!'
'You don't seem to be,' he heard the servant reply.
'Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master, and at once.'
'Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,' answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.