"Why did you show this lady in here? Where’s Thompson?" he demanded angrily. "He’s out, sir, and—and—" The sudden apathy of disappointment that had come over Nell broke. "She didn’t show me in here. I followed her. This room will do. I am in a hurry." The maid disappeared. "Where is Denis?" Nell’s voice broke the little silence in measured accents. "If you will come into another room—" "No, thanks. This room will do." He pushed a chair toward her and gave his tie a pull. "Where is Denis?" she repeated, not noticing the chair. She stood facing him, her slim figure drawn to its full height, her head thrown back. "I—I’m sure I don’t know—won’t you sit down?" He drew his hand nervously over his hair. "Do you mean O’Brien?" "Whom else should I mean? Where is he?" "’Pon my word, I don’t know! I—_won’t_ you sit down?" "Hasn’t he been here this evening?" His rueful brows mounted higher and higher till his forehead was all little creases, which, oddly enough, Nell remembered afterwards. "No—no, he hasn’t— But I saw him—about—about—" "Oh, would you mind being quick?" she broke in irritatedly; her cheeks were a vivid pink, her eyes shone. Ted, looking at her, suddenly burst out, "I say, are you O’Brien’s sister?" "Oh, no, his aunt!" It wasn’t a dignified retort, but the extreme and very scornful exasperation in the sarcastic inflection made him redden to the roots of his hair. "When did you see him? Oh, do tell me quickly!" "I beg pardon. It’s—er—a trifle disconcerting," a gleam of humour shot into his grey eyes, "rather unexpected, you know, and—er—all that. I saw him about three, I think." "Oh!" gasped she. "That must have been in the bank! You _know_—you _must_ know—I don’t mean that! Where is he _now_?" "I don’t know," patiently. "Don’t know! Don’t you know anything, or don’t you care? I must find him. He—he maybe wearing handcuffs in prison now!" Ted Lancaster put up his hand and rubbed his nose. For the first time she noticed his coat. It was a pretty coat—a loose, silk smoking-jacket—but in some unaccountable way it was, to her, the last stroke. All her pent-up nervousness, her quivering impatience, suddenly culminated in wild wrath against the wearer of that coat.