inger.

She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which was
more comfortable than the client's seat, and held the door open for her
to pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he was
thinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to the
feminine perception are the thoughts of men.

When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like many
stout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasion
demanded haste.

He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they were
addressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, which
brought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was to
abandon his books when called.

"I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt for
each one of those letters," said the banker, knowing that until he went
out to luncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. "Not an answer," he
explained, "but a receipt in the addressee's writing."

And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at a
break-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyes
fixed on space.

"No one can wait," he was in the habit of saying, "better than I can."

CHAPTER XXIV. THE LANE OF MANY TURNINGS

If John Turner expected Colville to bring Loo Barebone with him to the
Rue Lafayette he was, in part, disappointed. Colville arrived in a hired
carriage, of which the blinds were partially lowered.

The driver had been instructed to drive into the roomy court-yard of
the house of which Turner's office occupied the first floor. Carriages
frequently waited there, by the side of a little fountain which splashed
all day and all night into a circular basin.

Colville descended from the carriage and turned to speak to Loo, who
was left sitting within it. Since the unfortunate night at the Hotel
Gemosac, when they had been on the verge of a quarrel, a certain
restraint had characterised their intercourse. Colville was shy of
approaching the subject upon which they had differed. His easy laugh had
not laughed away the grim fact that he had deceived Loo in such a manner
that complicity was practically forced upon an innocent man.

Loo had not given his decision yet. He had waited a week, during which
time Colville had not dared to ask him whether his mind was made up.
There was a sort of recklessness in Loo's manner which at once puzzled
and a