'I think you will find that right,' he said; 'six thousand pounds in
all.'
The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to
count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with
his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with
great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink
of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the
stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a
chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he
grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:--
'Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?'
Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face,
murmuring, to keep his memory green:--
'A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.'
'Not at home?' cried the vibrant voice. 'Nonsense! Everybody is at
home on Christmas Eve!'
'_You_ don't seem to be,' he heard the servant reply.
'Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your
master, and at once.'
'Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county
ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,'
answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which
unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble
capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.
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