But he neither
moved nor spoke until it was too late. The door opened, he heard Cruze
announce his presence, and it seemed to him the words were scarcely out
of the secretary's mouth when McDowell himself stood in the door.
"Come in, Conniston," he said quietly. "Come in."
It was not McDowell's voice. It was restrained, terrible. It was the
voice of a man speaking softly to cover a terrific fire raging within.
Keith felt himself doomed. Even as he entered, his mind was swiftly
gathering itself for the last play, the play he had set for himself if
the crisis came. He would cover McDowell, bind and gag him even as
Cruze sauntered in the hall, escape through a window, and with Mary
Josephine bury himself in the forests before pursuit could overtake
them. Therefore his amazement was unbounded when McDowell, closing the
door, seized his hand in a grip that made him wince, and shook it with
unfeigned gladness and relief.
"I'm not condemning you, of course," he said. "It was rather beastly of
me to annoy your sister before you were up this morning. She flatly
refused to rouse you, and by George, the way she said it made me turn
the business of getting into touch with you over to Cruze.
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