“What!”

“A nice outlook, isn’t it?  Be careful what you say before Mrs. Malcourt; she doesn’t realise that Cardross, Carrick & Co. may be involved.”

Portlaw said with that simple self-centred dignity which characterised him in really solemn moments:  “Thank God, I’m in an old-line institution and own nothing that can ever pass a dividend!”

“Even your hens pay their daily dole,” nodded Malcourt, eyeing him.

“Certainly.  If they don’t, it’s a fricassee for theirs!” chuckled Portlaw, in excellent humour over his own financial security in time of stress.

So they descended to the living-room together where Constance and Wayward stood whispering by the fire.  Malcourt greeted them; they exchanged a few words in faultless taste, then he picked an umbrella from the rack and went across the lawn to his house where his bride of a fortnight awaited him.  Portlaw rubbed his pudgy hands together contentedly.

“Now that Louis is back,” he said to Wayward, “this place will be run properly again.”

“Is it likely,” asked Wayward, “that a man who has just married several millions will do duty as your superintendent in the backwoods?”

“Well,” said Portlaw, with his head on one side, “do you know, it is extremely likely.  And I have a vague idea that he will draw his salary with great regularity and promptness.”

“What are you talking about?” said Wayward bluntly.

“I’ll tell you.  But young Mrs. Malcourt does not know—­and she is not to be told as long as it can be avoided:  Cardross, Carrick & Co. are in a bad way.”

“How bad?”

“The worst—­unless the Clearing House does something—­”

“What!”

“—­And it won’t!  Mark my words.  Wayward, the Clearing House won’t lift a penny’s weight from the load on their shoulders. I know.  There’s a string of banks due to blow up; the fuse has been lighted, and it’s up to us to stand clear—­”

“Oh, hush!” whispered Constance in a frightened voice; the door swung open; a gust of chilly air sent the ashes in the fireplace whirling upward among the leaping flames.

Young Mrs. Malcourt entered the room.

Her gown, which was dark—­and may have been black—­set off her dead-white face and hands in a contrast almost startling.  Confused for a moment by the brilliancy of the lamplight she stood looking around her; then, as Portlaw waddled forward, she greeted him very quietly; recognised and greeted Wayward, and then slowly turned toward Constance.

There was a pause; the girl took a hesitating step forward; but Miss Palliser met her more than half-way, took both her hands, and, holding them, looked her through and through.

Malcourt’s voice broke in gravely: 

“It is most unfortunate that my return to duty should happen under such circumstances.  I do not think there is any man in the world for whom I have the respect—­and affection—­that I have for Hamil.”