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 _raisonne_? 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."

"Very great help," he murmured, stung by an indescribable compunction.
He had not reckoned on this complication; and it made the ambiguity of
his position detestable. It was bad enough to come sneaki