"Charming little beast, isn't he? See the buffalo in the middle? The little elephant came in a week ago from just south of the Khor Galagu. You had something private to say to me? Now's your time. Mind the ostrich, that's all. He looks a little ruffled."
They were quite alone in the zareba. The giraffes had fallen in behind and were following them, and level with them, on Hillyard's side, the ostrich stepped like a delicate lady in a muddy street. Hillyard found it a little difficult to concentrate his thoughts on Stella Croyle's message. But he would have delivered it awkwardly in any case. He had seen enough of Harry Luttrell last night to understand that an ocean now rolled between those two.
"On the first night of my play, 'The Dark Tower,'" he began, and suddenly faced around as the ostrich fell back.
"Yes!" said Luttrell, and he eyed the ostrich indifferently. "That animal's a brute, isn't he?"
He took a threatening step towards it, and the ostrich sidled away as if it really didn't matter to him where he took his morning walk.
"Yes?" Luttrell repeated.
"I went to a supper-party given by Sir Charles Hardiman."
"Oh?"
Luttrell's voice was careless enough. But his eyes went watchfully to Hillyard's face, and he seemed to shut suddenly all expression out of his own.
"Hardiman introduced me to a friend of yours."