He threw a meaning glance over his shoulder at Farrell, who stood in
a corner nervously winding and unwinding a long silk comforter about
his neck and throat. He seemed to be muttering, saying something
over to himself. His face twitched--it was still red and congested--
and he kept his eyes on the floor. He had not spoken to either of us
since the meeting dissolved. Very likely he did not see us.
"A bit rattled," I suggested quietly.
"You may bet on that, Sir Roderick." The steward, who was turning up
my coat collar, said this almost in my ear. "You don't think, now--"
He did not finish the sentence, and I faced about on him for the rest
of it. He tapped his forehead gently.
"Oh, nonsense!" said I. "He's not broken to public life and he
doesn't ruffle well, that's all; and, after all, it isn't every man
who enjoys being called a liar to his face and before some hundreds
of people."
"His face, sir," the steward persisted. "That's it; you've given me
the word. Did you see his face? No, of course you didn't, for you
were sitting sideways to him--and so was you, Mr.
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