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The accumulation of letters, packages and telephone memoranda upon
his desk included a number of notes and slips to remind him that
both Mrs. Skelmersdale and his mother were ladies of some
determination. Even as he stood turning over the pile of documents
the mechanical vehemence of the telephone filled him with a restored
sense of the adverse will in things. "Yes, mam," he heard Merkle's
voice, "yes, mam. I will tell him, mam. Will you keep possession,
mam." And then in the doorway of the study, "Mrs. Skelmersdale,
sir. Upon the telephone, sir."
Benham reflected with various notes in his hand. Then he went to
the telephone.
"You Wicked Boy, where have you been hiding?"
"I've been away. I may have to go away again."
"Not before you have seen me. Come round and tell me all about it."
Benham lied about an engagement.
"Then to-morrow in the morning." . . . Impossible.
"In the afternoon. You don't WANT to see me." Benham did want to
see her.
"Come round and have a jolly little evening to-morrow night. I've
got some more of that harpsichord music.


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