Du Pine watched them go, and a full minute passed before he roused himself. Then he took from his pocket a small phial of white tablets. This he carried to the lavatory opening out of Ballantine’s room. There he filled a glass with water, dropped a tablet in, and watched with eager eyes while it dissolved. He drained the mixture in one gulp and little by little the colour began to come back into his cheeks and the animation to his eyes. When the drug had done its work, he walked back with his usual quick, springy steps, into the room. He took from his pocket a bunch of keys, selected one and fitted it to his employer’s private desk. It was all but empty, and of its few contents there were none that interested him. Next he turned his attention to the safe which was let into the wall. Here too his search was fruitless. With a shrug of his shoulders, he cast one last look round the room that had been so long the nerve-centre of a great business, and departed.

3
MRS. EALES

Saturday, November 14th

Mr. Du Pine was quite right. Wherever Ballantine was, he was not with Mrs. Eales. In fact, while Mr. Robinson and Mr. Prufrock were making their enquiries in the City, that lady, sitting up in her bedroom in Mount Street over the remains of a very late breakfast, was wondering earnestly why he was not. A pile of letters lay beside her. They were, and were likely to remain, unopened. Every envelope, she knew, contained a bill, and at the moment she had not the strength of mind that would bear ascertaining how much she owed. In her mind’s eye, however, she could not but see some of the items in those bills, and they made her shiver. Her extravagance had in the past been the cause of endless quarrels with her protector, and now, as she glanced at the ominous heap, she automatically reflected: “There’ll be a first-class row when he sees that lot.” Then, with the dismal realization of how much better was an angry man than no man at all, she felt near to tears.

There was a knock at the door, and before she could answer it, her maid came into the room.

“What is it, Florence?” asked Mrs. Eales, with a smile more charming than is usually accorded to their servants by securely placed women.

Florence did not return the smile. Her manner was abrupt—almost insolent.

“Will Mr. Ballantine be coming in today?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Florence, I’m sure. Why do you ask?” Then receiving no answer, she went on hastily: “You can have this afternoon off if you want it. I shall be able to manage quite well, even if he does come.”

“Thank you, m’m,” said Florence, ungraciously. “And can I have my wages for last week, please?”