“Certainly you may understand that,” replied Vernon.  “Unless my character is attacked and it becomes necessary for me to defend myself, my lips are sealed.”

“That will never happen—­why should it?” said Sir Robert with a polite bow.

The door opened and the head clerk, Jeffreys, appeared.

“Mr. Jeffreys,” said Sir Robert, “please find us the deed of partnership between Major Vernon and ourselves, and bring it here.  One moment.  Please make out also a transfer of Major Vernon’s parcel of Sahara Syndicate shares to Mr. Champers-Haswell and myself at par value, and fill in a cheque for the amount.  Please remove also Major Vernon’s name wherever it appears in the proof prospectus, and—­yes—­one thing more.  Telephone to Specton—­the Right Honourable the Earl of Specton, I mean, and say that after all I have been able to arrange that he shall have a seat on the Board and a block of shares at a very moderate figure, and that if he will wire his assent, his name shall be put into the prospectus.  You approve, don’t you, Haswell?—­yes—­then that is all, I think, Jeffreys, only please be as quick as you can, for I want to get away.”

Jeffreys, the immaculate and the impassive, bowed, and casting one swift glance at Vernon out of the corner of his eye, departed.

What is called an awkward pause ensued; in fact it was a very awkward pause.  The die was cast, the matter ended, and what were the principals to do until the ratifications had been exchanged or, a better simile perhaps, the decree nisi pronounced absolute.  Mr. Champers-Haswell remarked that the weather was very cold for April, and Alan agreed with him, while Sir Robert found his hat and brushed it with his sleeve.  Then Mr. Haswell, in desperation, for in minor matters he was a kindly sort of man who disliked scenes and unpleasantness, muttered something as to seeing him—­Alan—­at his house, The Court, in Hertfordshire, from Saturday to Monday.

“That was the arrangement,” answered Alan bluntly, “but possibly after what has happened you will not wish that it should be kept.”

“Oh! why not, why not?” said Mr. Haswell.  “Sunday is a day of rest when we make it a rule not to talk business, and if we did, perhaps we might all change our minds about these matters.  Sir Robert is coming, and I am sure that your cousin Barbara will be very disappointed if you do not turn up, for she understands nothing about these city things which are Greek to her.”

At the mention of the name of Barbara Sir Robert Aylward looked up from the papers which he affected to be tidying, and Alan thought that there was a kind of challenge in his eyes.  A moment before he had made up his mind that no power on earth would induce him to spend a Sunday with his late partners at The Court.  Now, acting upon some instinct or impulse, he reversed his opinion.

“Thanks,” he said, “if that is understood, I shall be happy to come.  I will drive over from Yarleys in time for dinner to-morrow.  Perhaps you will say so to Barbara.”