"The coming of the King of Terrors," said Pierce. "But she cannot hear
his footsteps yet."
"They are loud enough in some ears. Ah, we, are at your door already?"
"Will you be good-natured and come in for a little while?"
"I'm afraid--isn't it rather late?"
"Only half-past eleven."
"Well, thank you."
They stepped into the little hall. As they did so a valet appeared at the
head of the stairs leading to the servants' quarters.
"If you please, sir," he said to Pierce, "this note has just come. I was
to ask if you would read it directly you returned."
"Will you excuse me?" said Pierce to Sir Donald, tearing open the
envelope.
He glanced at the note.
"Is it to ask you to go somewhere to-night?" Sir Donald said.
"Yes, but--"
"I will go."
"Please don't. It is only from a friend who is just round the corner in
Stratton Street. If you will not mind his joining us here I will send him
a message."
He said a few words to his man.
"That will be all right. Do come upstairs."
"You are sure I am not in the way?"
"I hope you will not find my friend in the way; that's all. He's an odd
fellow at the best of times, and to-night he's got an attack of what he
calls the blacks--his form of blues. But he's very talented. Carey is his
name--Rupert Carey. You don't happen to know him?"
"No. If I may say so, your room is charming."
They were on the first floor now, in a chamber rather barely furnished
and hung with blue-grey linen, against which were fastened several old
Italian pictures in black frames.
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