"Yes. She is not very well. I understand she has gone to see Dr. Allen. But she ought to be back pretty soon. Won't you come up to the house, Desboro?"
There was a short pause, then Desboro's voice again, in reply:
"I believe I will come up, Clydesdale. And I think I'll talk to you instead of to your wife."
"Just as it suits you. Very glad to see you anyway. I'll be in the rear extension fussing about among the porcelains."
"I'll be with you in ten minutes."
In less time than that Desboro arrived, and was piloted through the house and into the gallery by an active maid. At the end of one of the aisles lined by glass cases, the huge bulk of Cary Clydesdale loomed, his red face creased with his eternal grin.
"Hello, Desboro!" he called. "Come this way. I've one or two things here which will match any of yours at Silverwood, I think."
And, as Desboro approached, Clydesdale strode forward, offering him an enormous hand.
"Glad to see you," he grinned. "Congratulations on your marriage! Fine girl, that! I don't know any to match her." He waved a comprehensive arm. "All this stuff is her arrangement. Gad! But I had it rottenly displayed. And the collection was full of fakes, too. But she came floating in here one morning, and what she did to my junk-heap was a plenty, believe me!" And the huge fellow grinned and grinned until Desboro's sombre face altered and became less rigid.