"Could you finish my catalogue by the twenty-seventh? That's a little more than three weeks." "Well--it would depend rather on the number of notes you wanted. Let me see--there must be about fourteen or fifteen thousand books here--" "There are fifteen thousand." "It would take three weeks to make an ordinary catalogue; and that would be quick work, even for me. I'm afraid you must give me rather more time." "I can't. I'm leaving England on the twenty-sixth." "Couldn't I go on with it in your absence?" "No, that would hardly do." "If you could only give me another week--" "I couldn't possibly. I have to join my father at Cannes on the twenty-seventh." So she was Sir Frederick Harden's daughter then, not his wife. Her last words were illuminating; they suggested the programme of a family whose affairs were in liquidation. They also revealed Sir Frederick Harden's amazing indifference to the fate of the library, an indifference that argued a certain ignorance of its commercial value. His father who had a scent keen as a hound's for business had taken in the situation. And Dicky, you might trust Dicky to be sure of his game. But if this were so, why should the Hardens engage in such a leisurely and expensive undertaking as a catalogue _raisonné_? Was the gay Sir Frederick trying to throw dust in the eyes of his creditors? "I see," he said, "Sir Frederick Harden is anxious to have the catalogue finished before you leave?" "No, he isn't anxious about it at all. He doesn't know it's being done. It is entirely my affair." So Sir Frederick's affairs and his daughter's were separate and distinct; and apparently neither knew what the other was about. Rickman's conscience reproached him for the rather low cunning which had prompted him to force her hand. It also suggested that he ought not to take advantage of her ignorance. Miss Harden was charming, but evidently she was a little rash. "If I may make the suggestion, it might perhaps be wiser to wait till your return." "If it isn't done before I go," said Miss Harden, "it may never be done at all." "And you are very anxious that it should be done?" "Yes, I am. But if you can't do it, you had better say so at once." "That would not be strictly true. I could do it, if I worked at it pretty nearly all day and half the night. Say sixteen hours out of the twenty-four." "You are thinking of one person's work?" "Yes." "But if there are two persons?" "Then, of course, it would take eight hours." "So, if _I_ worked, too--" "In that case," he replied imperturbably, "it would take twelve hours." "You said eight just now." "Assuming that the two persons worked equally hard." She crossed to a table in the middle of the room, it was littered with papers. She brought and showed him some sheets covered with delicate handwriting; her work, poor lady. "This is a rough catalogue as far as I've got. I think it will be some help."