Perfect repose was what he needed after quitting Tudor's
flat. He felt that he had stood as much as a man can expect himself to
stand. In the vault, and again in the flat, his life had been in danger;
he had suffered the ignominy of the ruined sale; he had come to grips
with Ravengar, and let Ravengar go free; he had listened to the amazing
recital of the phonograph. Moreover, between the interview with Ravengar
and the burglary of the flat he had summoned his Council of Ten, or,
rather, his Council of Nine (Bentley being absent, dead), had addressed
all his employes, had separated three traitorous shopwalkers, ten
traitorous cashiers, and forty-two traitorous servers from the main
body, and sent them packing, had arranged for the rehabilitation of Lady
Brice (_nee_ Kentucky-Webster), had appointed a new guardian to the Safe
Deposit, had got on the track of the stolen stoles, and had approved
special advertisements for every daily paper in London.
And, finally and supremely, he had experienced the greatest stroke of
joy, ecstatic and bewildering joy, of his whole existence--the news that
Camilla lived. It was this tremendous feeling of joy, and not by any
means his complex and variegated worries, that might have prevented him
from obtaining the sleep which Nature demanded.
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