He was keeping it up to the very end with a desperate determination not to let go his hold of his pose until he had made his private shrewd deal, whatsoever it was. At least, so it struck Palliser, who merely said: “I 'm leaving the house by the first train to-morrow morning.” He fixed a cold gray eye on the fool's grin. “Six forty-five,” said T. Tembarom. “I'll order the carriage. I might go up myself.” The door closed. Tembarom was looking cheerful enough when he went into his bedroom. He had become used to its size and had learned to feel that it was a good sort of place. It had the hall bedroom at Mrs. Bowse's boarding-house “beaten to a frazzle.” There was about everything in it that any man could hatch up an idea he'd like to have. He had slept luxuriously on the splendid carved bed through long nights, he had lain awake and thought out things on it, he had lain and watched the fire-light flickering on the ceiling, as he thought about Ann and made plans, and “fixed up” the Harlem flat which could be run on fifteen per. He had picked out the pieces of furniture from the Sunday Earth advertisement sheet, and had set them in their places. He always saw the six-dollar mahogany-stained table set for supper, with Ann at one end and himself at the other. He had grown actually fond of the old room because of the silence and comfort of it, which tended to give reality to his dreams. Pearson, who had ceased to look anxious, and who had acquired fresh accomplishments in the form of an entirely new set of duties, was waiting, and handed him a telegram. “This just arrived, sir,” he explained. “James brought it here because he thought you had come up, and I didn't send it down because I heard you on the stairs.” “That's right. Thank you, Pearson,” his master said. He tore the yellow envelop, and read the message. In a moment Pearson knew it was not an ordinary message, and therefore remained more than ordinarily impassive of expression. He did not even ask of himself what it might convey. Mr. Temple Barholm stood still a few seconds, with the look of a man who must think and think rapidly. “What is the next train to London, Pearson?” he asked. “There is one at twelve thirty-six, sir,” he answered. “It's the last till six in the morning. You have to change at Crowley.” “You're always ready, Pearson,” returned Mr. Temple Barholm. “I want to get that train.” Pearson was always ready. Before the last word was quite spoken he had turned and opened the bedroom door. “I'll order the dog-cart; that's quickest, sir,” he said. He was out of the room and in again almost immediately. Then he was at the wardrobe and taking out what Mr. Temple Barholm called his “grip,” but what Pearson knew as a Gladstone bag. It was always kept ready packed for unexpected emergencies of travel. Mr. Temple Barholm sat at the table and drew pen and paper toward him. He looked excited; he looked more troubled than Pearson had seen him look before.