Jadwin chafed and fretted in his inaction. As the time when the house party should break up drew to its close, his impatience harried him like a gadfly. He took long drives over the lonely country roads, or tramped the hills or the frozen lake, thoughtful, preoccupied. He still held his seat upon the Board of Trade. He still retained his agents in Europe. Each morning brought him fresh despatches, each evening’s paper confirmed his forecasts.

“Oh, I’m out of it for good and all,” he assured his wife. “But I know the man who could take up the whole jing-bang of that Crookes crowd in one hand and”⁠—his large fist swiftly knotted as he spoke the words⁠—“scrunch it up like an eggshell, by George.”

Landry Court often entertained Page with accounts of the doings on the Board of Trade, and about a fortnight after the Jadwins had returned to their city home he called on her one evening and brought two or three of the morning’s papers.

“Have you seen this?” he asked. She shook her head.