The sudden opening of the door caused her to start with a foolish hope that it might be Goddard returning. But the neat maid-servant, in her subdued voice, announced Mr. Gleam.
He came forward eagerly, his dry equable face glowing with excitement.
“Have you seen Goddard?”
He was too preoccupied with his business even to linger his usual moment over her finger-tips.
“He has been here. Why do you want him?” The question was in a breath with the reply. Something had happened. She caught Gleam’s excitement, half rose in her chair, and looked up at him anxiously.
“To tell him some news. Great news. Glorious news. I am the only one who has got it. The enemy have been weakening all the time—a rift within their lute. Rosenthal has backed out. Cleaver & Flyte are in a panic—Rosenthal was behind them, you know. The others can’t stand alone. It’s utter rout!”
“But it’s too late!” exclaimed Lady Phayre, with a ring of dismay in her voice. “Haven’t you heard?”
“It isn’t. Not yet,” replied Gleam animatedly. “The managers won’t declare till to-morrow morning—unless they are fools. But I have more precise news still. You did not let me finish,” he laughed apologetically. “They will give in all along the line if the men hold out another four-and-twenty hours.”
“They must hold out,” cried Lady Phayre. “Oh, why isn’t Goddard there?”
“Better he should be here—if I could only get at him. Wiring couldn’t have been definite enough. It’s not safe. Let me track him down, and off he goes by the midnight train, or the newspaper train, and then——”