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She spoke as though she had but just caught sight of the industrious secretary, yet as she entered the room she had seen him at once, and noted his occupation.

She crossed to his side now in a graceful, leisurely manner that, to her husband’s admiring eyes, seemed perfectly natural. He did not perceive the keen glance she directed, not at the secretary, but at the papers over which he was poring.

“It is too bad!” she repeated in her caressing voice. “You should—what is the word?—ah, yes, you should strike, Mr. Carling.”

Roger looked up and stumbled to his feet, thereby interposing himself as a screen between her and his writing-table.

“Not at all, though it’s awfully kind of you to say so, Lady Rawson,” he murmured confusedly. “As I told Sir Robert, I had nothing particular to do this evening; Grace doesn’t expect me, and I’d rather finish up everything to the last moment.”

“Is the work important?” She directed the question to her husband.

“Yes, and we really must not hinder him. Good night, my boy. We shall see you to-morrow. You’ll put those papers in the safe as usual, of course. I’ll attend to them in the morning—or to-night, perhaps.”