"I don't entirely know. But it appears that Van Diest and his amiable colleague Hipps, are shortly paying us a visit—here."
There was a moment of consternation.
"But Good Lord!" exclaimed Cranbourne. "That may mean anything."
Nugent Cassis threw up his hands desperately. Every vestige of his quiet business habit had vanished and instead he was a nerve-racked exasperated man who paced up and down jerking out half sentences, reproaches and forecasts of failure.
"It's that fellow Frencham Altar given us away. Damn stupid introducing the type—man on a bench—Means ruin to the lot of us. Coming here are they? Refuse to see them. I knew there'd be a break down somewhere—felt it in my joints—If everything had gone according to schedule, Barraclough would have been back by now—Punctual man—reliable——"
"Big stakes involve big risks," said Mr. Torrington sweetly.
"And haven't we taken them?" Cassis barked. "Good Heavens alive! why—What's that?"
There was a murmur of voices in the hall, the room door was thrown open, and Isabel Irish came in breathlessly. She threw a quick glance round the circle of faces as though seeking someone.
"Where is he? Where's Tony? It's after eleven—half past—Why isn't he here?"
Mr. Torrington rose and offered a chair, which she refused with a gesture.