So she was Sir Frederick Harden’s daughter then, not his wife.  Her last words were illuminating; they suggested the programme of a family whose affairs were in liquidation.  They also revealed Sir Frederick Harden’s amazing indifference to the fate of the library, an indifference that argued a certain ignorance of its commercial value.  His father who had a scent keen as a hound’s for business had taken in the situation.  And Dicky, you might trust Dicky to be sure of his game.  But if this were so, why should the Hardens engage in such a leisurely and expensive undertaking as a catalogue raisonne?  Was the gay Sir Frederick trying to throw dust in the eyes of his creditors?

“I see,” he said, “Sir Frederick Harden is anxious to have the catalogue finished before you leave?”

“No, he isn’t anxious about it at all.  He doesn’t know it’s being done.  It is entirely my affair.”

So Sir Frederick’s affairs and his daughter’s were separate and distinct; and apparently neither knew what the other was about.  Rickman’s conscience reproached him for the rather low cunning which had prompted him to force her hand.  It also suggested that he ought not to take advantage of her ignorance.  Miss Harden was charming, but evidently she was a little rash.

“If I may make the suggestion, it might perhaps be wiser to wait till your return.”

“If it isn’t done before I go,” said Miss Harden, “it may never be done at all.”

“And you are very anxious that it should be done?”

“Yes, I am.  But if you can’t do it, you had better say so at once.”

“That would not be strictly true.  I could do it, if I worked at it pretty nearly all day and half the night.  Say sixteen hours out of the twenty-four.”

“You are thinking of one person’s work?”

“Yes.”

“But if there are two persons?”

“Then, of course, it would take eight hours.”

“So, if I worked, too—­”

“In that case,” he replied imperturbably, “it would take twelve hours.”

“You said eight just now.”

“Assuming that the two persons worked equally hard.”

She crossed to a table in the middle of the room, it was littered with papers.  She brought and showed him some sheets covered with delicate handwriting; her work, poor lady.

“This is a rough catalogue as far as I’ve got.  I think it will be some help.”

“Very great help,” he murmured, stung by an indescribable compunction.  He had not reckoned on this complication; and it made the ambiguity of his position detestable.  It was bad enough to come sneaking into her house as his father’s agent and spy, and be doing his business all the while that this adorably innocent lady believed him to be exclusively engaged on hers.  But that she should work with him, toiling at a catalogue which would eventually be Rickman’s catalogue, there was something in the notion extremely repulsive to his sense of honour.  Under its muffling of headache his mind wrestled feebly with the situation.  He wished he had not got drunk last night so that he could see the thing clearly all round.  As far as he could see at present the only decent course was to back out of it.