She considered a moment.  “Has Mr. Pilkington any idea of the value of those books?”

“I’m certain he hasn’t.  Only an expert could have.”

“Would it be perfectly fair to him?”

“To him?  Perfectly fair.  You buy them at his own valuation.”

“I see.  I should like to do that—­if—­if it can be managed.”

“I think it can be managed.  My father isn’t likely to settle with Mr. Pilkington without consulting me.  If he has settled we must try and get him to withdraw.”

“Oh, surely there would be no difficulty about that?”

He said nothing.  It was really terrible the way she took integrity for granted.  To be sure his father had a reputation with the family.  He remembered how Sir Joseph used to praise him to his face as the only honest dealer in London.  But Sir Joseph was in the habit of buying books, not selling them.

He rose and turned away, evading her innocent eyes.

“I hope not.  I’ll see Mr. Pilkington about it.  By the way, here is Mr. Pilkington.  Did you expect him?”

“No, I—­” Her voice died away, extinguished in her horror.

CHAPTER XXXI

There could be no mistake about it.

Mr. Pilkington was coming by the private way, stepping softly over a fair green lawn.  The low golden light before sunset flooded the lawn so that Mr. Pilkington walking in it was strangely and gloriously illuminated.  Everything about him shone, from his high silk hat to the tips of his varnished boots.  His frock coat and trousers of grey summer suiting clung to his figure like a warm and sunny skin.  All over Mr. Pilkington and round about him there hung the atmosphere of the City.  Not of the actual murky labyrinth, roofed with fog, but of the City as she stands transfigured before the eyes of the young speculator, in her orient golden mood.

Lucia had seen him.  The light died out of her face, her lips straightened.  She stood motionless, superb, intent.  With such a look and in such an attitude a Roman maiden might have listened to the feet of the Vandal at the gate.

He was coming very swiftly, was Dicky, as if borne by an impetus of conquest.  As he caught sight of Miss Harden through the open window, though he kept his head rigidly averted, his eyes slewed round towards her, and at the same moment his fingers rose instinctively to his little fair moustache.  It was the gesture of the irresistible male.

“Must I see him?” she asked helplessly.  She had realized everything in that moment.

“Not unless you like.  Shall I deal with him?”

“If you would be so good.  But no—­it doesn’t matter.  I shall have to see him later.”

She sat down again and waited.  The silence was so tense that it seemed to bear the impact of her pulses; it throbbed and quivered with pain.  Outside, the sound of the pebbles, crunched under Pilkington’s footsteps, became a concert of shrieks.