"Regarding your protection to-night, sir," he said, standing up and buttoning his coat, "there are six men on special duty round the house, and no one can possibly get in unseen."
The Home Secretary, smiling, glanced at his watch. "A quarter to nine!" he said. "He has fifteen minutes in which to make good his bluff. But I do not fear interruption."
Sheffield awkwardly returned the statesman's bow of dismissal, and withdrew under the patronage of a splendid footman. As the door closed, Mr. Belford, with a long sigh of relief, stepped to a bookcase and selected Petronius Arbiter's "Satyricon."
Book in hand, he slid back the noiseless glass doors of the conservatory. A close smell of tropical plant life crept into the room, but this was as frankincense and myrrh to his nostrils. He passed through and seated himself in a cushioned cane chair amid the rare flora. Switching on a shaded lamp conveniently hung in this retreat, he settled down to read.
For it was a favourite relaxation of the right honourable gentleman's to bury himself amid exotic blooms, and in such congenial company as that of the Patrician æsthete, rekindle the torches of voluptuous Rome.
A few minutes later:
"Am I nowhere immune from interruption?" muttered Mr. Belford, with the nearest approach to irritability of which his equable temper was deemed capable.
But the next moment his genial smile dawned, as the charming face of his niece, Lady Mary Evershed, peeped through the foliage.
"Truman was afraid to interrupt you, uncle, as you were in your cell! But Inspector Sheffield is asking for you, and seems very excited."
"Dear me!" said her uncle, glancing at his watch; "but I saw him fifteen minutes ago! It has just gone nine." Then, recalling Séverac Bablon's boastful message: "He has not dared to attempt it! Unless—can it be that he is arrested? Tell Truman to send the inspector here, Mary."