They dined alone that night, and she was sure that his deep gloom must have been noticed by the servants who waited on them. And she was sure it was not business matters that troubled him. He had always boasted that he never brought home his office worries with him, had expressed his contempt for men who did so, who had no power of detachment. “When a man comes back to his home it is his duty to make his family happy, and leave his business behind him,” had been a favourite dictum of his, and to do him justice he had always acted up to it.
After dinner they went up to the drawing-room, but he made no pretence of being cheerful. Rosabelle asked if the piano would disturb him. He shook his head, and she played very softly a few of her favourite pieces. Suddenly Morrice rose, went to her, and kissed her.
“I am wretched company to-night, my little girl,” he said; his face still wore its hard gloomy expression, but there was a sadness in his voice that went to the girl’s heart. “You stay here and amuse yourself as best you can. I am going to my study, and shall not see you again this evening. Good-night, dear.”
Rosabelle clung to him. “Oh, uncle, can I do nothing to help you?”
He gave her a grateful smile, but shook his head obstinately, and left the room. She played on a little after he had gone, but she was full of troubled thoughts, and hardly knew what she was doing.
And Rupert Morrice, the great financier, the successful man of business, respected by all who knew him, envied by many, sat alone in his room, devoured by bitter and revengeful thoughts. What had his wealth done for him, if it failed to buy loyalty from those who were near to him, on whom he had lavished such kindness and generosity?
It was only a little past eight o’clock, they had dined early as was often their custom when they had no company. Would the weary evening ever come to a close? But when it did, and he went to his room, he knew he would not be able to sleep.
Suddenly the telephone bell rang. Glad of the momentary diversion, he crossed to the instrument and unhooked the receiver.
It was Lane’s voice that was speaking. The detective was late at his office, and it had occurred to him to ring up on the chance of finding Morrice in and making an appointment for to-morrow morning. He had that day, after much reflection, judged that it was time to precipitate matters—to launch his coup.
“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Morrice. I have something of the utmost importance to communicate to you, and the sooner the better. Can I see you to-morrow?”