‘I have not seen her yet.—But look here, Wrentham; I wish you would do without referring to Miss Heathcote so frequently. I do not like to have her name mixed up in the mess of my affairs.’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear Philip, if I have touched the very least of your corns. ’Pon my honour, it was accidental, and I am sorry for it.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘Well, but I must ask you to pardon me once again, for I am compelled to refer to the lady, and I hope to do so as a gentleman should in speaking to his friend of the fair one who is to be that friend’s wife. Will you grant me leave?’
‘What is it?’ was the irritable query.
‘I mentioned to you that I imagined Miss Heathcote could throw some light on the proceedings of Mr Beecham and Mr Shield. Now I know she can.’
‘You say that as if you thought she would not. How do you know that she knows anything about their business?’
‘Don’t get into a temper with me—there’s a good fellow. Although I could not enter into your plan with the enthusiasm you and I would have liked, I am anxious—as anxious as yourself—to see you out of this scrape.’ (He had good reasons of his own to be anxious; for there was a certain strip of blue paper in the hands of Philip’s bankers which it was imperative that Wrentham should get possession of; and that he could not do unless a round sum was paid in to Philip’s account during the week.)
‘Don’t mind my ill-humour just now,’ muttered Philip apologetically, in answer to his manager’s appeal.
‘Certainly not,’ Wrentham went on, instantly restored to his usual ease. ‘Well, I could not rest in the office to-day, and having put everything square until to-morrow, I went up to Clarges Street.’