“Rather!” Rupert spoke with enthusiasm.  “If you knew how deadly sick I am of the life I live now!” he added, with strong disgust.  “It’s beastly hard work, too, in a sense, and nothing to show for it.”

“I should work you hard myself,” Mordaunt observed.

“I shouldn’t mind that.  I’d work like a horse here.  It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“And kick like a horse, too, if I ventured to find fault,” said Mordaunt, smiling a little.

“No, I shouldn’t.  I’d take it like a lamb.  Come, man, I’ve apologized.”

There was a note of reproach in Rupert’s voice.  Mordaunt left his writing-table and faced him squarely.

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” he said.  “If you can manage to keep straight between now and Christmas, and you are of the same mind then, I will take you on.  Is it done?”

Rupert thrust out a hand with a beaming countenance.  “Done, old fellow!  And a thousand thanks!  I’ll do my part somehow if it kills me.  Hullo, I say!  There’s Chris calling!  Hadn’t we better go?”

He was plainly desirous to end the interview, and Mordaunt did not seek to prolong it.  “Come along, then!” he said.  And they went out together arm-in-arm to join the group upon the lawn.

Two hours later, just before Rupert and his friends started upon their return journey, Bertrand happened to enter Mordaunt’s writing-room, and was surprised to find the eldest Wyndham standing by the table with a glass of whisky-and-soda to his lips.

The surprise was mutual, and on Rupert’s side so violent that he dropped the glass, which shivered upon the floor.  He uttered a fierce exclamation as he recognized the intruder.

Bertrand was profuse in his apologies.  “But I had no idea that there was anyone here!  A thousand pardons, Mr. Wyndham!  It was unfortunate—­but very unfortunate.  I am come only for Mr. Mordaunt’s keys, which he left here by accident.  I will ring for Holmes.  He will remove this debris.  And you will have another drink, yes?”

“I can’t wait,” Rupert said, almost inarticulately.

He remained standing at the table trying to compose himself, but he was white to the lips.

Bertrand regarded him with quick concern.  “Ah, but how I have alarmed you!” he said.  “My shoes are of canvas, and they make no sound.  Will you, then, sit down for a moment, while I pour out another glass of whisky?”

He drew forward a chair with much solicitude, and took up a fresh glass.  But Rupert swung away, turning his back upon him.

Prom the front of the house came the hoot of the waiting motor.  Plainly his comrades were waxing impatient.

“But you will drink before you go?” urged the courteous Frenchman.  “I am desolated to have deprived you—­”

Rupert turned his face for an instant over his shoulder.  It was no longer white, but crimson and convulsed with anger.  His hands were clenched.